


We Will Remember Them....

by Lilachigh



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-08
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 81,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilachigh/pseuds/Lilachigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In 1943, Spike and Dru are captured by the British Army. To save Dru's life, Spike agrees to fly to France to save a Slayer from the Nazis.  In 2001, Quentin Travers asks Buffy to time travel back to war-torn France to save a Slayer and kill a vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
> Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
> At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
> We will remember them.  
> Laurence Binyon

We Will Remember Them….

By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

London - 1943

The shackles on his ankles had rubbed his skin raw and the ones round his wrists bit into his flesh like claws. But as William the Bloody, Big Bad, Scourge of Europe, or Spike to his friends, shuffled along the corridor, he was angrier with the fact that his captors had refused to give him a rotten cigarette!

How bloody petty could you get, he cursed under his breath as one of his guards pushed him through a door into a dimly lit room, situated deep in the bowels of the Tower of London. Keeping a bloke from having a fag. It was an unwritten rule. When you were about to be executed you got some poxy church guy preaching prayers at you, a final meal and a last cigarette.

Well, he’d had the prayers – although what good the sodding vicar thought he could do for a vampire Spike wasn’t quite sure. And although he’d plainly asked for a nice roast chicken, he’d got a miserable inch of blood in a cracked mug! Some last meal.

And now no cigarette. Spike sighed and stared round the room, looking for the execution squad. He was actually quite interested in the logistics of his own second death. Would they all rush at him with stakes, only one of which would be made of wood. He knew most firing squads only had real bullets in one gun.

“Sit down!”

The voice came from the far corner of the room. Spike squinted through the gloom, but it was hard to see through the dried up blood that was still covering his eyelids. But he knew the voice. Well, not the actual person, but the accent – some public school, army poofter talking with a plum in his mouth. But sitting down would be a change from being chained to a wall, so he sat. “Well, get on with it then,” he said as the silence lengthened. “Haven’t got all bloody day to die.”

“You expect to die then, vampire?”

Spike winced as his cut lips twisted into a smile. “Well, I sodding well don’t expect you to let me live, mate.”

“You are a foul-mouthed, evil thing. But even so, there are many ways of dying. Some good, some – less good.”

Spike tried to stretch out his legs, the chains clanking. Oh god, they were going to lecture him to death. This was all bloody Angel’s fault! He remembered the submarine, the deaths, being captured by the Yanks and then, oddly, being flown back to England in the cargo hold of a plane before being incarcerated in the Tower. And somewhere along the line, he’d lost his black leather jacket! He’d been fond of that jacket. He loved a nice bit of black leather.

“You are English, I believe.”

Spike frowned. Was there a different way for English vamps to be offed? “You know I am.”

“Would you fight for your country, vampire?”

Spike stopped the automatic reply of “Of course” before he could say it. He had standards to maintain. “Depends how much you pay me, mate!”

He heard papers rustling in the gloom. “I see. Payment. Well, I suppose lacking a soul means that all sense of morality has long left you. Let us discuss something first, then we can argue about payment. What do you know about Slayers?”

The vampire sat up a little straighter. This execution scene was getting weirder by the moment. “Killed one once. Hope to kill more in the future. Except I don’t have a future. Pile of dust me, if you have your way.”

“I have your record in front of me. I can see you killed a Slayer in China. Well, this time, vampire, we want you to save one!”

“I should coco!”

“Our present Slayer, a girl called Joy, is being held captive in Germany. A British task force has tried to free her with appalling loss of life but no success. It is vital, imperative, for reasons that do not concern you, that the Slayer is released from prison within the next week. We want you to fly to France and bring her home.”

Spike burst out laughing, wincing as his damaged ribs grated together. “Singing Rule Bloody Britannia while I do so, I suppose. Think again, Little Lord Fauntleroy, I’m not saving any poxy Slayer.”

The shadowy figure ignored his outburst. “Now, let us come to the matter of payment. Stand up!”

Spike was jerked to his feet by his guard and propelled forward. He realised that at the far end of the room was a curtained window. The drapes were pulled aside and he automatically flinched, expecting sunlight. But all the window showed was another cell and there, chained to a post was his dark princess, Drusilla.

“You rotten bastards, let her go!” He strained at the chains and could have sworn he felt a couple of links give way.

“As you can see,” the voice calmly continued, “we have in our care a lady you have some, er, affection for, shall we say? If you agree to rescue the Slayer, then both you and your friend will be set free. If not, we will dispatch the lady in front of you and you will spend the rest of your life in the deepest dungeon we can find, remembering that you could have saved her.”

Spike stared with longing through the glass. Dru looked so thin and ill. He reckoned she hadn’t eaten for days, weeks, maybe. There was no choice to be made here. He’d go and capture Adolf himself to save Dru. “Do I have your word you won’t stake her?” he asked quietly.

“As an officer and a gentleman, yes, you do. Now to business, can you fly a plane, William?”

* * * * * *

Sunnydale – 2001

 

“Let me get this straight. You want me to go back in time to 1943 – to France in the middle of a war!” Buffy stared at Quentin Travers, trying not to let her voice rise above a yell because Dawn was upstairs asleep.

The head of the Watchers’ Council had arrived on her doorstep an hour ago, on his own, looking – she had to admit – worn and tired. She’d been tempted to tell him to get lost, then was worried he was going to give her bad news about Giles who’d flown back to England only days before.

But Quentin Travers didn’t seem bothered by Giles’ absence. All he wanted was Buffy’s help, help she was determined not to give. She was far too busy here; she had responsibilities, Dawn, Willow, Spike – not that he was a responsibility, of course, and sleeping with him, so not a good idea, but….oh god, the sensations he aroused in her body were….

The elderly Englishman produced a large faded manila file from his briefcase. “Let me give you the facts once more, Miss Summers. During the Second World War, a great many of our records were taken out of London to save them from the bombing. Watchers buried them, hid them all over the country in secret locations until the time came to return them. We thought they had all been recovered until recently one particular file, this one, was found behind a secret panel in an old house in a city called Rochester which is the county of Kent in southern England.”

“And this file thingy means I’ve got to go to France?”

Quentin Travers sighed and rubbed is forehead. “In 1943, the records show our Slayer, a girl called Joy, was held prisoner in France. Now, those records also show that she escaped – and this is the crux of the matter – with the help of another Slayer – a Miss Summers!”

Astonished, Buffy stared at him. “So I have already been to France!”

“Exactly. And this is where the official records – ” he tapped the file, “become very vague. There are a lot of brief notes in code, which our experts believe were written by a colonel in the British Army who was an active member of the Watcher’s Council and also a very experienced warlock. It is difficult to piece together from the code, but we think he realised that Joy would need the help of a Slayer to escape, but not one whose death would ruin the Slayer line – ”

“Hey, I can die endlessly and because Faith is alive, no one is bothered,” Buffy said dryly. “Geez – I do feel loved.”

“Quite! So he concocted a charm to call a Slayer from the future when one became – well, let us say redundant. And obviously, with the reference to Miss Summers, that Slayer is you, Buffy.”

“But why was he so insistent that Joy needed the help of another Slayer? Surely there were army guys who could have saved her?”

Quentin sighed. “I think the colonel was under a great deal of pressure. The notes become more and more fragmented and hard to understand. But right at the very end there is a section that is written in plain English. It says, ‘Why did I send the vampire to rescue her? Whose side is he on? Can I really trust him? Must have Slayer help.”

“Oh great! Now there’s a vamp in the mix as well as the Nazis.”

The head of the Watchers’ Council leant back in his chair, his face lined with weariness. “We know you went, Miss Summers. And we know that Joy survived until the end of the War when another girl was called.”

“Why was Joy so important – with all the weapons and bombs and things they had in those days, one girl, even a Slayer, couldn’t have made a lot of difference.”

Quentin Travers gazed at the slim blonde figure in front of him, not seeing her, his mind many years and miles away. “Not many people know, but the Nazis were fascinated by vampires. They imprisoned any they caught and experimented on them. They were hoping to recruit a whole army of evil beings. The Slayer would have been a vital weapon against such an army.”

“But you Brits sent a vampire to save this Joy?”

Quentin nodded, obviously as puzzled as she was. “We are not quite sure of their reasoning, but perhaps there was an error of judgement and they wanted another Slayer to be dispatched to kill him and save Joy.”

Buffy walked across the room and gazed out of the window into the dark yard. At the far side, she could see a small red glow of a cigarette. She knew who was standing out there and her body sang with anticipation of what he would do to it tonight if she let him. Well, he’d be disappointed this time. She had a very long journey ahead of her and a mission. She was going back in time to France, to save a Slayer and kill a vamp!

 

Buffy Summers peered suspiciously at the small flask of dark blue liquid that Quentin Travers was offering her. “Is that it? The charm thingie? That colored water is going to send me back to 1943?”

Quentin shook his head and smiled. “Not quite, no. This puts you into a trance because you have to be perfectly still while I say the charm. Hardly breathing, I believe.”

“You believe!” Buffy’s glare almost took the skin from his face. “Geez, hasn’t this been done before?”

“Oh certainly,” Quentin said hastily. “There are many recorded references to Slayers moving between ages. But the main requirement is that your blood pressure, your breathing, everything drops to almost zero, then the charm works and you wake up in – well, in this instance France, 1943.”

“So who wrote the charm? I hope they knew what they were doing. I don’t want to end up fighting dinosaurs or watching the pyramids being built.” Buffy was still not completely convinced. There was something not quite right about the whole thing, but she couldn’t decide what it was. Quentin Travers was too smooth, too conciliatory. She knew he hated her and even though she was doing him a big favor, he ought to have been snarkier, speaking with that exquisite polite sarcasm that only a posh English guy could manage.

“One of my associates,” Quentin replied smoothly. “Very able fellow.”

“And I get back, how?”

Quentin tutted to himself, as if this part of the plan had just slipped his mind. He rummaged in his briefcase. “In this little bottle here, is the antidote. You don’t need a charm for the return trip; as long as it is within forty-eight hours, you just drink the potion and then you return here, to your living-room.”

Buffy sighed and slipped it into her pocket. “Let’s get on with it then.” She’d already been upstairs to change into her darkest clothing; she was carrying a crossbow and quiver over her shoulder, and her waistband was full of stakes. “I’ve left a note for Dawn and Willow saying I’m going to be away for a couple of days on Slayer business.”

She glanced out of the window to where the sun was beginning to rise. Another long day in Sunnydale. It would be a strange relief to be out of it, even for forty-eight hours. Should she tell Spike where she was going? She knew he would come looking for her, expecting, insisting. Oh God, what was she going to do about that? Nobody had the right to make her feel so needy and so powerful, all at the same time.

“Well, if you are quite ready, Miss Summers.”

Buffy nodded, took the flask and gulped down the midnight blue liquid that tasted oddly smokey with a strong flavor of pineapple.  
She sat on the sofa, shut her eyes and waited for Quentin Travers to start saying the charm out loud. She had no idea what to expect, but she imagined there would be a rushing sensation and perhaps lots of whirly lights, like in Stargate when they travelled down the wormhole from one planet to another. She felt a flicker of amusement at the thought of how envious Xander would be when – the soft sofa underneath her became hard ground and a cold wind driven rain was hitting her face….

Quentin Travers stared at the sofa where a crossbow and quiver lay on the cushions. “Impressive,” he murmured.

“Is that the first time you’ve seen it done,” came another very English voice from the doorway.

He looked up to see Rupert Giles standing there. “Yes, indeed. It’s very – quick.”

“She would have been expecting to hear you saying some odd, magical words.”

Quentin shrugged and packed the empty flask away into his briefcase. “Oh people always expect the tarradiddle and flummery where charms are concerned. Even Slayers. You know better than that, Rupert. The charm to send her that you made yourself is all that was needed.”

Giles put his hand against the wall to hold himself upright. Tonight’s work had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do as a Watcher. Watching from the shadows as Quentin smoothly talked Buffy into agreeing to his request, he had felt sick to the pit of his stomach. But there had been no choice. The whole course of history, of western civilization itself depended on Buffy journeying to 1943. But – she wasn’t coming back and knowing that, he hadn’t trusted her enough to ask her to sacrifice herself yet again.

“The return potion?”

“Oh, just water and crème-de-menthe liqueur. Very pleasant, but – “

“Not magical,” Giles broke in.

Quentin looked up at his tone. “I have said it many times before, Rupert, you get far too emotionally involved with these girls. Miss Summers is a redundant Slayer. If we need to, we can eliminate Faith and a brand new one will be called. Miss Summers is extremely lucky to be given this chance to save the world from the evil of the Third Reich. Not many young women with her background get the chance to travel to France, either.”

“She expects to come home in forty-eight hours!”

Quentin Travers shrugged and headed for the door. “If she doesn’t succeed, there won’t be a home - as she knows it - to come back to. Now, I suggest we take my car and head straight for the airport. I have a luncheon appointment at the Athenaeum tomorrow and I believe you told me you were going house-hunting in Bath. I know it well. I had an aunt who lived in Wells…”

 

* * * * * *

 

France: 1943

 

William the Bloody shifted in the seat of the Tiger Moth airplane and banked it hard over the dark French countryside. He’d been flying in full game face for the past ten minutes, snarling against the cold rain that beat in through the open cockpit. The army poofter had been replaced by an airforce Johnny who’d been just as smarmy, another upper-class wanker. He hadn’t really believed Spike when he’d told him he could fly a plane. Kept muttering about his logbook and hours flown until eventually the guard with Spike had whispered something in his ear, he’d turned very pale and shut up.

Spike had been about to tell him that he’d learnt years ago from a guy in Greece. The four of them, him, Dru, Angel and Darla had been staying in his house. Well, to be truthful, they’d been keeping him prisoner while they ate the rest of his family, but to pass the time – and to save one of his children – (they’d lied!) – he’d taught Spike to fly.

Spike eased the plane sideways. Where the bloody hell was the river? They’d assured him that it was going to be a full moon tonight and that the river would stand out like a white ribbon beneath him. He only had to follow it and the chateau where the Slayer was being kept prisoner would come into view.

“Sodding rain!” he snarled, glad of the goggles that protected his eyes. He had to admit he liked the rough brown leather helmet and jacket he’d been given to wear. He’d been terrified they’d made him wear a poncey uniform but apart from the thick, roll-neck sweater, they hadn’t bothered.

Vampire vision made night flying easy but the wind and rain that had descended on this part of France hadn’t been expected and the little plane was bouncing around like a toy.

“There! That must be the river.” A sudden break in the clouds had momentarily allowed the moon to shine down and reflect off the water below. Spike realized that he was nearer to the chateau than he’d planned. The last thing he wanted was for the guards to be on the alert too soon.

“Poxy Slayer! Why the hell’s she doing getting caught over here? Killing some poor, garlic-smelling, snail-eating Frog vamps, I suppose. Serves her right. If it wasn’t for Dru, I’d leave her here to suffer.”

The Tiger Moth was flying low now: Spike eased back the engine as they came in over a wood, then a ploughed field, the wheels brushing a hedge, then bang! thud, they’d landed on the smooth grass of another field where sheep ran for cover and he cut the engine as the plane turned and taxied into the shadow of the woods

He scrambled out of the cockpit, his face shimmering back to human. He tossed his leather flying-helmet on the seat and dropped to one knee to listen. Nothing! Just the rain pattering down on the leaves above and the wind rustling the bushes.

He knew the chateau where Joy, the Slayer, was being held captive was on the other side of this wood. Piece of cake, so far, he thought. No one’s expecting her to be rescued. As long as the silly bint doesn’t squeal at the sight of a vamp, we’ll be all right.

He stood up and strode into the woods, following a path that seemed to lead in the right direction. But he hadn’t gone more than fifty yard when the attack came. A body came flying out of the undergrowth, smashing him to the ground.

Fangs extended, eyes glowing amber, he rolled like a cat, wrapping his arms tightly round the slender body in a grip that could only end by his death. For a split second he was aware of soft breasts pressed against his chest, silky hair on his mouth and thighs as hard as his rubbing against his –

Then with a speed that astounded him, he was flung up and over, the girl breaking his grip with ease. Spike landed on he balls of his feet, turned, caught the fist that swung towards him holding a stake - and just then the scent of her overwhelmed him.

“Slayer!” he hissed. Instead of backing away, he jerked her violently towards him, the sudden unexpected movement throwing her off guard.

Buffy found herself standing, her body close to the vampire she had attacked. And even before the moon sailed out again from behind a cloud, she knew. The feel of those hands on her body, the long length of cold thigh pressing against her – the burning in her blood that only one person ever caused.

“Spike?” The word was a gasp of astonishment, delight and deep despair.


	2. Working Together

We Will Remember Them….

By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter Two

 

France: 1943

 

“Bloody hell, it knows my sodding name!” Spike pushed Buffy away from him in disgust as she spoke. “Oy, are you Joy? How the hell did you get out of the chateau? I thought you were a prisoner?”

Buffy stared into the face of the vampire who had haunted her dreams for weeks now. It was Spike – but it wasn’t the Spike she knew, the man whose body had plundered hers, whose very presence in a room made her blood sing. There wasn’t a single glimmer of recognition in his eyes. This was William the Bloody and, with a shudder of horror, she realized this was the vampire Quentin Travers expected her to kill.

“I’m not Joy, I’m Buffy.”

“Buffy? What idiot gave you a name like that?”

“My mother!”

The vampire clicked his fingers. “You’re a Yank! Not even a Brit Slayer. I suppose those clowns in London sent you. And how can there be two of you? Don’t you have to pop your clogs before there’s a new one? Or has poor old Joy copped it already?”

“If you mean, has she died, not as far as I know. I’m supposed to – “ Buffy hesitated. She couldn’t tell him she was here to dust him. And anyway, if she killed him, what would that do to the time-line? “Help you save her. I’m a sort of – extra Slayer.”

Spike pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, savouring the tang of the smoke in his mouth. “A Yank Slayer. God help us all.” His eyes gleamed suddenly in the moonlight. “You know what they say about all you Yanks coming to England, don’t you? Over paid, over sexed and over here!” He leered at the girl standing in front of him. “Well, the last part is right. What about the other two, Slayer? Over-paid? Well, as far as I know, you don’t get a load of gelt for staking us poor vamps. But what about over-sexed?”

He took a long stride forward, grinning and Buffy backed away, glaring at him. “Any closer and you’re a little pile of dust. I don’t want to be here any more than you. But I’ve got a job to do.”

Spike took a final pull on his cigarette, then sent the end spiraling away into the bushes. He shrugged. Drusilla’s existence depended on the next few hours. Tempting though it was to have a second Slayer on his kill list, it would have to wait.

“Saving this Joy girl is my business, Slayer. There’s a lot depending on it. You can come along if you want, but don’t get in my way.”

“Get in your way?” Buffy felt a familiar surge of irritation and an overwhelming desire to punch him on the nose. “You’re the one likely to mess up my plans.”

“What plans?” Spike jeered. “I bet you don’t even speak French.”

Buffy ignored him. It wasn’t her fault she had been far too busy being a Slayer to pay attention in class during French lessons. “Geez, I’m not here to have conversations with people. I’m here to rescue a Slayer, an English Slayer who will speak English! And the longer I stand here in these woods arguing with you, the less chance I have of finding her before dawn.”

“Temper, temper, Slayer. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” He pulled up the collar of his flying jacket and squinted at the sky. “About another hour before it’s light. Let’s get moving.”

He turned and strode away. Buffy bit back the hot words that she longed to throw in his face and hurried after him. It was weird, she thought, following the slim, brown leather clad back along a narrow path, this was the Spike she had known when he’d first arrived in Sunnydale: not chipped but dangerous, an evil, soulless killer.

She knew in this time he would kill her as soon as look at her. They had no history, no shared experiences. He’d already killed one Slayer and she knew he would kill again in the future. So if she dusted this Spike, would the Slayer in New York get to live? But then Spike had destroyed The Anointed One. If Spike hadn’t existed, what would have happened in Sunnydale at that time? And what about Angel? Was he likely to appear here in France as well? Wouldn’t that be fun! Not.

Buffy shivered. Was this why the Council had sent her back to this war zone? To kill Spike! Perhaps it had nothing to do with the Slayer held prisoner by the Germans. Buffy had no illusions where Quentin Travers was concerned. He could manipulate any circumstance to his advantage. Was he relying on her instincts – save the Slayer, kill the vampire?

She gasped as a branch Spike had pushed aside swung back into her face. Her hand shot out and stopped it with centimeters to go before it slashed her cheeks. That one gesture brought it home to her as nothing else had done. Her Spike would have been walking at her side, clearing the path for her, watching her back. This Spike saw her as a problem, one he had to accept but didn’t have to like.

For a long, stupid second Buffy felt tears burn her eyes as an overwhelming sensation of loss swept over her. Then, just as suddenly, she giggled. The temptation to tell the cocky jackass walking in front of her that they had – on several occasions – had astounding, mind-blowing sex was almost irresistible. But she was sure he would never believe her. Probably think it was some Slayer plot to confuse him.

Spike quickened his pace. He could have sworn he’d just heard the Slayer laughing! Stupid bint. What the hell was there to laugh about? Poxy Yank with a poxy name. What the hell was she really doing here in France? How could she rescue the English girl? She had no plane, no way of getting Joy out of the country and across the Channel.

Spike frowned. That was a point. How had she got here? He shrugged. He’d sort out that problem later. All he needed to do at the moment was concentrate on the prisoner he was here to find. Anyway, there was only room for one passenger in his plane. So that meant he’d have to leave the Yank behind. Good, let the Nazis deal with her. He’d heard they had all sorts of different ways of getting rid of people they didn’t want around.

Feeling more cheerful, Spike strode on towards the chateau. Twenty yards on, he stopped abruptly.

“What’s up?”

“Guard,” he muttered.

“I can’t see anyone.”

Spike sighed. “I can smell him! Rank sausage and cabbage.” His head moved slowly, then he stopped. “There! Under that tree.”

Buffy strained her eyes, then caught a glimpse of light reflecting off the metal of the man’s buttons and belt. “We need to take him out,” she muttered, but realized she was talking to herself. Spike had vanished into the dark and without thinking, she walked forward, knowing instinctively what was going to happen.

“Excuse me? Do you know the way to Paris, France?” she asked politely and the guard swung round, raising his rifle as he did so.

“Halten Sie! Hande hoch!”

The last word turned into a gurgle as Spike in full game face appeared like a shadow behind the guard and sank his fangs into the man’s neck.

Buffy watched for a couple of seconds, trying to tell herself this was war and the man was an enemy, but she couldn’t help hissing, “Stop that! You don’t have to feed off him. Killing the guy’s enough.”

Spike wiped his lips. “Tastes rank. God-awful blood. Sort of thin. And excuse me, Slayer, but I’m hungry. You might have filled your tight little stomach recently, but I haven’t. And I work better with some nice hot blood inside me.”

Buffy shuddered and turned away. How could she blame Spike for being – Spike? He’d killed in her presence before. But somehow, as the months had passed since he’d been chipped, she’d tended to push memories of his past out of her mind. But watching now, smelling the hot, iron smelling blood of his kill, how could she have ever forgotten that part of his life?

“No need to look so upset, Slayer,” Spike said, puzzled. “He was a Kraut. A Nazi. We’re at war, remember?”

Buffy refused to look at him. She stared up at the black bulk of the chateau that was now only yards away. High up in one round tower a light flickered faintly. Was that where Joy was being held? It was at least one place to start. “Come on,” she said curtly. “Let’s get this over with. I want to go home.”

Spike watched as she moved swiftly away from the guard’s body. He followed, puzzled. Not at her distaste at his feeding – bloody hell, Slayer – Vampire, it would have been odd if she hadn’t looked horrified. No, what puzzled him was the ease with which they had worked together, each seeming to know exactly what the other would do, without any words or commands.

Just like a complicated dance whose moves they both knew, he thought, and followed the Slayer towards the chateau.


	3. Chapter 3

We Will Remember Them….

By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter Three: The Girl I Love

France: 1943

 

Buffy Summers sheltered behind a large tree and peered round it at the French chateau in front of her. The dark bulk of the vast building shut out the sky, its turrets reaching upwards, the walls smooth, hard to climb. A light flickered in a window in one of highest windows.

She felt distinctly odd. It seemed like only minutes ago she’d been in her own time, on a continent thousands of miles away and now – hey, it was only minutes ago!

Now she was in the middle of a war zone, trying to rescue a Slayer with Spike – an evil, brown-haired, unchipped, deadly Spike, at her side. And there wasn’t time to work out exactly what was going on. She had the very strong feeling that this rescue mission was just the icing on the cake, that there was something else important happening that she didn’t know about.

“So – reckon the Slayer’s up in that room?” Spike’s mouth was close to her ear and she fought to keep her skin from tingling – with vampire warnings and that dreadful buzz of anticipation and longing she felt these days when he was close to her.

Buffy took a deep breath. “No – too many stairs for those in charge to bother with. You keep prisoners underground – somewhere easy for you to get to and hard for them to escape.”

Spike frowned. This Slayer with the odd accent was making sense but she was one weird girl. There was no mistaking the scent coming from her body. She was aroused – in some weird, perverted way, the American Slayer was up for – well, well! He got turned on by blood and mayhem, but he didn’t realise Slayers did as well. That was really interesting. It would make his hunt for them in the future even more enjoyable.

“So we head for the cellars.”

Buffy caught his arm as he strode forward and hissed, “Slow down, Bleach Boy! We don’t want to run into more guards.”

“Bleach Boy?”

The raised eyebrow gave her a jolt in her stomach. The silly name had slipped out so easily but, of course, it would be years before this Spike bleached his hair.

“It’s a…an American name for – for – for someone who is in too much of a hurry. Too long to explain it now. Just do what I say and slow down.”

“Who made you the boss?” Spike snarled.

“No one. It just – jeez, I’ve had a lot of experience fighting. I’m the Slayer.”

Spike stared at her for a long moment. God, she was an irritating bitch. He was so tempted to just reach out and bite her. But he could see her fingers hovering over the stake in her belt and guessed it wouldn’t take much provocation on his part for her to try and use it. No, there was no point in fighting with her now; she might come in useful, even if was as bait. All that mattered was getting the Joy girl away from the Germans and back to England so he could negotiate Dru’s release.

He bowed and swept his hand in a low, sweeping gesture, allowing the American girl to go first and followed closely on her heels as she stepped cautiously out onto the gravel driveway that led to the main door.

“There must be at least one more guard,” he breathed in her ear, enjoying the twitch of her body close to his. She was obviously scared of him, regardless of her apparent confidence.

Buffy struggled to control her wayward response to the vampire. Every time he came close, her body betrayed her. She hated herself because this guy had nothing to do with her. He wasn’t her Spike. Except – he was!

“The one you got rid of was covering the main door – I guess there’ll be one patrolling the grounds and several inside.”

“So – we need some sort of diversion to get them out here. You do that – being the better fighter, as you say – and I’ll find Joy.”

Buffy looked at him suspiciously. “No way am I letting you wander around on your own. For all I know, you’ll try and kill her just to annoy me.”

Spike sighed in exasperation. “What is it about you Yanks? Why can’t you ever cooperate? Look, Miss Stars and Stripes, the girl I love is being held ransom against the girl the Germans have got as their prisoner. Why the sodding hell should I put her at risk, just to have a go at you?”

The girl I love! The words hit Buffy with the force of an express train. So he was doing all this for Dru. That was the reason he was putting himself in such danger. Heart and mind belonged to that mad serial killer who would do so much damage in the future. ‘But if Spike fails and Dru is executed, then she won’t be there in Sunnydale to kill Kendra.’

She could almost feel her brain hurting. If Spike failed - the desire to have Dru gone was overwhelming and she would be saving Kendra’s life! But – Buffy ruthlessly squashed the little voice inside her head that whispered not only did she hate Dru, but she was blackly jealous of her as well! And, sanity swept over her, rescuing Joy was the mission – whoever achieved it, her or William the Bloody.

“OK, look, this is what we’ll do - !” She stopped, the breath taken from her as Spike vamped out and flung himself at her, forcing her back into a narrow stone embrasure in the great chateau wall. His body covered hers, his arms and legs holding her fast against the stones. His head was bent over hers and for a dreadful second she felt the graze of fangs against her neck.

Oh God, he was going to kill her! She had done what she had once sworn she would never do – let down her guard with a vamp at her back. But she was not going without a fight – she tensed every muscle, she knew she was as strong as he was – this was going to end now! Then a whisper, no more than a thread of sound said in her ear, “Bloody hell, will you keep still, Blondie.” And she heard footsteps on the gravel.

It sounded like several people were walking past, only twenty yards away. She could hear the shouts in German and the shuffling of many feet. Then they were gone and Spike lifted his weight from her and had the cheek to grin. “Sorry about that, Slayer! But your blonde hair stands out like some bloody great torch.”

Buffy hesitated, then, “I didn’t hear them,” she admitted. “Thanks!”

“Think nothing of it.” His voice sounded odd and Buffy glanced at his face, frowning. He looked – she would have said upset, shaken, except this was William the Bloody and he didn’t do upset.

“Who were they? Could you see?”

“Prisoners – a whole bunch of – “ He turned away, feeling in his pocket for cigarettes, then realising he couldn’t risk lighting one. “Vamps, Slayer. They were vamp prisoners.”

“Oh!” Buffy bit her lip. “That’s – I suppose they get rounded up and put in prison or – ”

Spike shoved his hands in the pockets of his flying jacket. “The ‘or’ is the key word there. You must have heard the rumours, even over in Yankee Doodle Land. Camps for vamps, that’s what I hear on the grapevine. God knows what happens in them. No one’s ever got out.”

Buffy realised she was about to reach out to touch his shoulder then pulled herself together. Sympathy was no use to Spike and if a whole load of vamps got dusted, why should she worry? They were a plague wherever and whenever they lived. People had been trying to get rid of them for centuries.

“Spike – concentrate - we need to find Joy. We can’t get sidetracked. And look, the sky’s getting lighter. Dawn’s coming. You’ve got to get indoors.”

He nodded: she was right, what other choice did he have? “We should follow those vamps. I reckon wherever they’re being held, that’s where we’ll find the Slayer girl.”

Five minutes later, the two of them were inside the chateau. They’d followed the guards with their prisoners, slipping silently along in the shadows that were getting lighter as the rain eased off and a weak sun struggled to break through the clouds. A small door in the thick stone wall had been opened and they’d watched as the small group of vamps were pushed and kicked through it and down a flight of steps into the dark below.

Buffy and Spike watched the last guard slam the door behind him, but the wood was swollen by the rain and even as they looked, they realised it wasn’t shut tight and it only took Spike seconds to force it open and for them to prowl down the steps, listening to the sounds of the vamps being escorted somewhere ahead of them. A scream rang out and Buffy realised a cloud of dust was drifting back along the narrow passageway to settle on her face.

“One less for them to torture,” Spike muttered viciously, vamping out, his eyes glowing amber and gold.

Buffy wiped the dust from her face. “Joy must be down here somewhere. We’ve got to find her fast, before they find us. Can you sense another Slayer?’”

Spike’s lip curled. “The stink of one Slayer is enough, believe me! But yes, she’s here. But lower down – there must be steps to another level. Yes, look, over there.”

Buffy stared down the spiral stairway. A faint light at the bottom glowed up through the darkness. She hesitated – they’d been lucky, so far, but it wouldn’t, couldn’t last. And even as she thought it, a door opened and a young soldier stood there – his uniform jacket was missing, his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his eyes wide with surprise.

Buffy swung her leg up and out, her foot connecting with his chin before he could shout, catching him as he dropped to the floor.

“Kill him!” Spike snapped.

“What? No. He’s out cold. We don’t need to kill him.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Slayer. Kill the bastard. Here – get out of my way.” He lunged forward and Buffy flung out an arm to stop him.

“No! I don’t kill people. I’m a Slayer, not a murderer.”

Spike stared at her, anger and puzzlement fighting together on his face. “What planet are you from? We’re at war with Germany. Remember? They kill us, we kill them. It isn’t murder. It’s war.”

Buffy felt sick. She shook her head and dragged the young man back into the small office he’d come from. She knew he would be unconscious for ages yet. She couldn’t kill him in cold blood. This wasn’t her war. She had a mission but no right to slaughter humans. If they got in her way, tried to prevent her taking Joy away, well, that would be different. Even then, she couldn’t kill out of hand.

Spike leant against the wall, watching as she tied the soldier’s hands behind his back, ripping a towel she’d found into strips with ease. He stared down at the small, slender figure, noting the odd material of the black top she was wearing. After all that had happened it wasn’t creased. Even her trousers – a dark green that clung to her slender hips, seemed foreign to his eyes. Obviously the Yanks had access to stuff they couldn’t get in England.

And what was with the not killing? She was going to ruin the whole rescue mission. He wished violently he could just kill her and be done with it, but he had a nasty feeling that she could still be useful. She was a bloody good fighter, he’d say that for her.

“Come on. Get your arse moving, Slayer.”

Buffy shot him a murderous look, finished tying up the soldier and pushed past Spike without a word. The treads of the spiral stairway were slippery under foot, polished almost to a shine by hundreds of years of moving feet.

At the bottom of the stairs, a dark passage led further into the depths of the chateau cellars. Barred cells were set into the damp rocks and from their dark depths Buffy could hear moaning. Spike strode in front of her, his head tilted, seeking for just one particular cell. He stopped suddenly and beckoned to Buffy. A second passage ran at right angles, crossing their path. Cautiously, they peered round the corner and saw where an area had been hollowed out of the hillside. A German soldier sat at a wooden desk, reading. Behind him was a heavy, nail-studded door, a small grille set at eye height.

“She’s in there,” Spike muttered. “Right, what do we do now, Slayer?”

Buffy fingered the stake in her belt. If only she was fighting vampires, she wouldn’t hesitate. Even demons could be killed without a qualm. But another human being? This time, she had no choice. Just then voices sounded, someone was shouting further down the passage. The soldier shut his book with a snap, called a reply, picked up his rifle and ambled away.

“Breakfast,” Spike said. “His lucky day.”

“You speak German?”

The vampire shrugged. “The longer you live, the more you pick up, sweetheart. Perhaps I’ll even get to understand what you are saying one day. But no, that would mean continuing to have you around, so I won’t bother.”

Buffy glared at him, then hurried forward and peered through the grille in the prison door. It was almost black inside the cell; only one small candle flickered on the floor. “Hello! Hi! Joy – are you there? Can you talk?”

Something stirred in the dark and then a new noise cut through the damp, airless cellars. From inside the cell came the sound of a baby crying!


	4. Touching

We Will Remember Them….

By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter Four : Touching

Somewhere in France: 1943

 

The sound of a baby crying echoed through the underground cells of the vast French chateau - unexpected, alarming and disturbing. Buffy flinched – this had to be so bad! - and banged on the prison door with clenched fists. “Joy! Are you in there? Can you hear me?”

“The whole sodding castle can hear you!” Spike said, sounding disgusted. He stretched an arm over her shoulder and waved a large, ornate key in front of her nose. “You should learn to use your eyes and well as your pretty little pink mouth, Slayer. The key was on a hook under the guard’s desk. Just where you’d expect it to be.”

Buffy glared, snatched it from him and turned it in the lock. “Stay here and keep watch,” she snapped.

“Whatever you say! Two Slayers in one small room is a bit rich even for my blood. And why is a kid in there? No one mentioned a baby to me.”

Buffy didn’t reply: she was pushing open the heavy door,  
wrinkling her nose and trying not to retch at the fetid smell that rose up from the floor and hung like a foul mist inside the dark, damp cell. The baby’s cries had faded into whimpers and Buffy found she was whispering, scared of alarming it. “Joy? Slayer?”

“Who are you?”

The very English voice reminded Buffy instantly of Giles. She pushed the door wider and the light from the passage threw a pale yellow glow onto the girl lying on a narrow metal bed on the far side of the cell.

She struggled up onto one elbow, the other arm protecting the child that lay against her breast. Long dark hair spilled in dirty tangles across her shoulders and a huge bruise disfigured one cheek. But Buffy could see that under the thin blanket, her feet were flat on the bed, ready to spring, every inch of her taut and prepared to fight.

“Hi, listen, we need to move – fast. My name’s Buffy, I’m a Slayer like you – “ She waved an impatient hand as she guessed what the next words out of the girl’s mouth would be – “I know. Don’t worry, you’re not dead! I’ll explain when we get out of here.”

Buffy knew that any other person in the world would have asked more questions, exclaimed, commented, argued. But Joy was a Slayer and she swung herself round to sit on the edge of the bed. The baby whimpered again and Joy looked up at Buffy, something close to despair in her eyes. “She’s starving. I’ve no milk.”

“Oh! OK, we’ll cope with that when we get clear. Can you walk?”

Joy nodded fiercely, stood up and promptly collapsed back on the bed again. “Sorry! I had a rough time having her. I lost a lot of blood and I’ve been sick ever since.”

“What the bloody hell’s keeping you, Slayer?” Spike’s voice sliced through the dark. “That goon won’t stay in the kitchens eating his breakfast sausage and sauerkraut for long.”

Joy stiffened, her brown eyes widening. “Vampire!” She tried again to stand up and this time managed two steps before she fell forward and Buffy caught her. “Kill it! Stake it! Quick! What are you waiting for? It’ll take my baby!”

“No, it won’t. I mean, he won’t. It’s Spike. I mean, yes he’s a vampire, but he won’t hurt you or the baby. He’s been sent to help rescue you. We both have. Trust me.”

The light from the passage dimmed as Spike stood in the doorway. “Move it, Slayers. There isn’t time for a cosy chat. Hey, she can’t bring that kid with her. It’ll slow us down.”

“Touch my baby and you die!”

“Yeah, like that’s going to happen, sweetheart.”

“Spike, she’s too weak to walk.”

The vampire threw an impatient glance over his shoulder. His sharper hearing had picked out the sound of footsteps and voices further back along the stone passageway. Before Joy could move, he’d crossed the cave and had swung her and the baby up in his arms. The English Slayer struggled violently for a second or two, then her head fell back against his shoulder and her eyes shut.

“She’s passed out, stupid bint. Take the kid, Slayer, before she drops the poxy thing.”

Buffy rescued the warm, kicking bundle from Joy’s grasp, easing the young mother’s arms away because, even unconscious, her grip on her child was frighteningly tight. She followed Spike out of the cell, shutting the door behind her as she left. Hopefully the guard wouldn’t realise his prisoner had gone until the next time they checked on her.

Spike was moving fast, his long stride eating up the flight of stone steps that led from the dungeons to ground level. Suddenly Buffy heard him hiss in pain, swirl round and step back towards her. She could see immediately what had happened – as the vampire had reached the outer door, a ray of bright sunlight had beamed through the opening, lancing across Spike’s face.

“Sodding sun,” he grumbled.

“Watch where you’re going, idiot!”

Spike glared at her. “Oh, thanks for the tea and sympathy, Slayer. That bloody well hurt.”

“You’ll mend,” Buffy said ruthlessly and edged past him to peer out into the grounds of the chateau. “Sun’s way up. Now what are we going to do? You’ll never get across that grass to the woods. I’ll have to carry Joy.”

“If you think you’re going to leave me here – “

“Look – you need to find somewhere to hide, under cover, until the sun goes in. This is France – it can’t be sunny all day. It isn’t California.” She cast a glance back over her shoulder. All was silent behind them. Which, she thought fleetingly, was weird. This was all too easy. You didn’t just walk into a heavily guarded enemy encampment and wander off with their prize possession without anyone noticing.

Spike followed her gaze and said, with that uncanny knack he seemed to have of reading her mind - even when he didn’t know her – “It’s too quiet, isn’t it? Reckon it’s a trap?”

Buffy nodded. “Yes. But I can’t see why they’re letting us get this far.”

“Here – hold your Slayer mate for a sec.” He swung Joy down from his arms and Buffy supported her as best she could, trying desperately not to drop the baby. Spike pulled off his leather flying-jacket, draped it over his head and strode warily up to the door.

Buffy flinched as she saw smoke rising from the skin on his hands as the bright sunlight bit into his flesh. She was about to say, “Be careful,” when Joy stirred and opened her eyes.

“My baby?”

“Safe. She’s safe. Listen, my name’s Buffy Summers. I’m – hey, I’m an American Slayer. The vampire is called Spike, in case you missed that before you passed out. We’ve been sent to rescue you and get you back to England.”

“What’s the vampire doing?” Joy stared with dread and hatred at Spike.

“Trying to see if there are soldiers outside the door. We reckon this rescue has been too easy. It feels like a trap.”

Joy nodded slowly and reached for the baby Buffy was still holding. “I’ll take her now. I don’t understand what’s happening, but you’re right; there’s no way you could have got me out of that cell so easily unless they’d known you were coming. The Resistance have been trying for months now.”

Buffy recalled all she’d ever read and seen in movies about the French Resistance. She knew they were the good guys who would cheerfully die for the cause of French freedom. “You were working with them?”|

Joy nodded. “Aurora’s father is Pierre Gastonet, the leader of the local group. He’s never seen his daughter. She was born inside the chateau after the Germans captured me. I have to get back to him, Buffy. I have to!”

“You’re going to England, Slayer, whether you like it or not, so you can forget your poxy French boyfriend.” Spike was back, pulling on his flying jacket, rubbing the burns on his hands. “There’s a whole bunch of Nazi goons outside. Trying to hide behind bushes and trees. We won’t get twenty yards from the door before they nab us. So now what? Got any more brilliant plans up your sleeve, Miss Yankee Doodle Dandy?”

Buffy stared at him. She was finding it so difficult to remember that this wasn’t the Spike she knew and loved – well, of course she didn’t love him! It was just that the cliché was worded that way. Knew and loved. Knew and got on OK now he was chipped would be a better way of putting it.

Knew and ached for him, would be even better, she thought, but pushed the memories of their love-making to the far depths of her mind. This vampire would never touch her in that way, even if she begged him, which, of course, was plain stupid because she would never do that. Ever.

But if only this was her Spike. She could have trusted him, relied on him to do what she asked, follow her lead. This Spike – she felt a wave of exhaustion and unhappiness sweep over her. All this vampire wanted was to get his lover, Dru, out of an English prison.

A suspicion that had been growing in the back of her mind now swam to the fore. “Why do you reckon the Germans have let us take Joy this far?”

Spike shrugged. He was rapidly going off the whole “Rescue a Slayer and free your girlfriend” plot. He reckoned he’d do better ditching the pair of them, returning to the plane and flying it back to England. He’d find some other way of rescuing Dru. He had friends in London, vampires who’d be willing to help – as long as he paid them - and there was always blood around during a war.

The Slayer twins could fight their way through the German army by themselves. He’d be sorry if the American one got shot, though – and his thoughts came to a swerving, screeching stop. Why the hell should he be sorry if Buffy got her autocratic, bossy self killed? No, he’d be thrilled, delighted. He’d write a bloody poem about it!

The English girl flung back her long black hair and hushed the baby who had started complaining again. “I have to find milk; she’s so hungry,” Joy said feverishly. “But I can guess what they want.” She bent her head to kiss the baby’s cross face. “They think I will lead them straight to Pierre and the rest of the Resistance fighters. They aren’t bothered about me or Aurora: just him. They don’t know I’m the Slayer. They think I’m Madame Gastonet, Pierre’s wife. That’s why I’m so important to them.” She winced. “They’ve been trying to force me tell them where he is.”

She touched the huge bruise on her face with tentative fingers and Buffy wondered why her Slayer healing hadn’t started to repair it already. Perhaps the blood she’d lost having the baby had slowed down the whole process.

Spike spun round, stared back down the passage, cursed and vamped out for a second or two. “Soldiers behind us now, Slayer,” he snapped. “We can’t go back, only forward.”

“Look, getting Joy out of here is what we’re supposed to do. We have to get into those woods somehow, Spike. Then we’ll play the Nazis at their own game. Let them think we’re leading them to Joy’s guy, then give them the slip.”

“Brilliant, Slayer. One small point – IT’S BLOODY SUNNY OUT THERE!” Spike shouted.

“Well, you should have worn a longer coat! It would cover more of you. Jeez, Spike, pathetic much.”

“Right, next time I go shopping in sodding Bond Street, I’ll be sure to remember what you say. In the meantime – ” He glanced at the small blonde girl in front of him. Tight top and trousers, nothing to use there, although even in the stress of the situation they were in, he had to admit she filled them out well.

But Joy – she still had the filthy blanket from her bed draped over her shoulders. One long stride took him to her side, then, without a word of warning, he pulled it off her, ignoring her weak yelp of anger.

“Sorry about that, but there’s no way you two are leaving me behind. My Princess is expecting me to save her.” He draped the blanket over his head, picked Joy up again as if she weighed nothing at all, kicked open the door and ran.

Buffy clutched the baby tighter, waiting for gunfire that never came. Joy was obviously right – the Germans weren’t interested in killing them, only in following their tracks, hoping for far bigger game. She took a deep breath and followed Spike out, bent double to protect the little girl, running faster than she’d ever run before until the welcome shade of the woods surrounded her.

Branches sliced at Buffy’s face, brambles snapped at her legs as she ran. Ahead of her, she caught swift glimpses of Spike shouldering his way through the undergrowth. He’d tossed aside the blanket he’d thrown over his head and amidst the dappled browns and greens of the thick wood, his brown leather jacket gave him good camouflage.

‘Big plus for not bleaching your hair yet, Spike,’ she thought. ‘Platinum blond would have been dangerous, far easier for the Nazis to see.’

She glanced behind her, but there was no sign of pursuit yet. But she was sure the Germans would be following. If they were desperate to catch Joy’s husband, one of the leaders of the French Resistance, then they wouldn’t give up easily their hopes that the English girl would lead them straight to him.

Buffy glanced down at the baby she was holding in her arms. The little girl was awake, but quiet, seemingly enchanted by the motion of running. A little fist reached up and tugged at the locket swinging from Buffy’s neck.

“Glad you’re happy, baby!” Buffy gasped and then skidded to a stop as she realised the woods ahead were thinning out. Spike was standing behind the broad trunk of an old oak tree. He had dumped Joy unceremoniously on the ground and was peering out at the sunlit field in front of him. “Sodding hell!”

“What?” Buffy placed the baby in Joy’s outstretched arms and joined him.

“There’s a guard on the Tiger Moth. They’ve found the plane.”

Buffy sighed. “Spike, it’s right out in the open. A blind man bound hand and foot could have found it! Couldn’t you have – I don’t know – parked it better? Under the trees?”

Spike turned, then stepped back, feeling uneasy to be standing so close to a Slayer. An expression of disgust crossed his face. “Look, Slayer, if you can’t say anything sensible, I would suggest you don’t say anything at all. It’s a plane, not a car.”

Joy struggled to her feet. She looked exhausted but with the fresh air, some of her dungeon pallor was vanishing. “We need to move. Fast. The Germans will guess we’ve come here. They’ll have circled round by road to cut us off. Why did you run straight to the plane? Why do something so stupid, vampire? Do you want us to get caught?”

Spike ran his fingers through his curly brown hair, tugging at it. “God, you bitches never let up, do you?” He pointed at Joy. “You, shut up. I wouldn’t be in this god-forsaken, snail-eating, hell-hole if it wasn’t for having to rescue you. And you – ” He pointed at Buffy who glared back at him. “You just – well, just stay out of my way.”

“I’d be thrilled to do that. A long way out of your way. Thousands of miles out of your way! But before that can happen, we’ve got to get Joy back to England, or have you forgotten that small fact?”

“I’m not going anywhere near England,” Joy said angrily. “Whoever told you to bring me back can just forget it. I’m needed here.”

The baby began to whimper and she hushed her. “And first and foremost, we have to get away from this plane. And I need to find milk for Aurora.”

“OK, where do we go? You tell us,” Buffy said.

Spike stared at the two Slayers in angry bewilderment. “Stop yakking about the bloody kid. Help me kill that guard and we can get Joy into the plane and I’ll fly her to England. She can bring the baby with her if she has to, but I’m not sodding around France looking for a cow.”

Buffy and Joy ignored him.

“This way,” Joy said and gestured into the deepest part of the woods. “There’s a village a mile away. If I can reach it, I can send a message to Pierre. My husband will know what to do.”

“I’m not wandering around these woods all day,” Spike snapped. These women were driving him crazy: one Slayer was bad enough, two was impossible. He longed to kill them both, sink his fangs in those slender white necks and drain them both of every drop of blood that ran through their veins.

But even as his face itched to change, the picture flashed into his mind of Dru, imprisoned, waiting to be staked if he didn’t keep his part of the bargain. No, killing them wouldn’t help his Princess. He needed a Plan. A good Plan. That wouldn’t be difficult. He was bloody brilliant at Plans.

“Then stay here,” Joy snapped. “I don’t want you near Aurora, anyway.”

Spike vamped into game face, then shimmered back again. Bloody women! Let them see how far they got without him. Turning on his heel, he strode away, vanishing into the shadowy woods within seconds.

Buffy stood staring after him, biting her lip, feeling rejected and ridiculously betrayed. Spike never walked away from her. He was always there to guard her back. She gave herself a mental shake. OK, he so wasn’t ‘her’ Spike; she could stop feeling all deserted girl. But – what was more important at the moment, he was still William the Bloody and likely to do something incredibly stupid and unexpected at any moment.

“I’d rather keep him where we can watch him,” she said but Joy just shrugged and began to hurry in the opposite direction.

“I can’t stand vamps. They give me the shudders. I know I should thank him for rescuing me, but I’m feeling stronger now. I don’t need help from a vamp and I don’t understand how you can bear to be near him. You had your hand on his shoulder just now. I saw you.”

Buffy flushed. Joy’s tone reminded her, in a weird way, of Willow. That accusing tone, the odd sensation she gave that she was right and Buffy was in the wrong. Had she touched Spike? Well, yes, okay, she had, just for a moment as she was trying to see the guard around the plane. It hadn’t crossed her mind that there was anything wrong with that. It was only Spike. She had touched more than his shoulder recently! But, of course, to Joy he wasn’t ‘Spike’; he was a deadly, vicious, evil thing. And he will be for many years yet, she reminded herself. You must remember that.

“He won’t stay away. He’s under orders to get you back to England.” She cast a swift look at Joy. “Do you know why? Is it the Council who wants you rescued so desperately?”

Joy shrugged. “Look, I don’t understand what’s going on. I can tell you’re a Slayer, but even that doesn’t make sense. Unless, I suppose it’s the war. Maybe there is more than one of us called during a world conflict.”

Buffy frowned. There was no way she could tell Joy that she was from the future, so the ‘two during the War’ was as good an idea as any. “Yes, that must be it. I’ve been sent - from America to – to help. Get you back to England.”

Joy sighed as the baby began to cry a little louder. She hushed her, rocking her in her arms. She cast a long look behind her but there was no sign that the Germans had spotted them: hopefully they were following the vampire.

“I can’t think why the Council are so keen for me to go home. They ordered me here after Dunkirk because of the huge numbers of vamps that were appearing in France. They were flocking out of Germany and Russia and heading for England. I was supposed to check out the situation and kill as many as I could. I can’t see that much has changed, except that the Nazis do a lot of my work for me by rounding up the vamps and putting them in camps.”

“What do they want with them?”

Joy shrugged and clambered up a steep slope, her strength obviously returning with every step. “No idea and I really don’t care. I do know that they never come out of the camps, so that’s top hole as far as I’m concerned!”

Buffy frowned. Of course Joy was right. A dusted vamp was a success story, whoever was doing the killing, but – she shook her head to clear it. This, as Spike had told her recently, was War.

“And you met your Pierre over here?”

“Yes.” Joy smiled briefly. “He was my contact when I parachuted into France. It was very romantic. Love at first sight. As you can imagine it was not a good time to fall in love and get pregnant, was it? But for once I was doing something I wanted, something that wasn’t controlled by the Council.” She grinned, her dark eyes full of mischief. “I quite enjoyed sending them a coded message, telling them I was now Madame Gastonet!”

Buffy winced. Was there ever a good time to fall in love when you were a Slayer? Or a good person to fall in love with? And was this disobedience the reason the Council wanted Joy back in England? Because she’d got married and had a baby?

Buffy wondered suddenly what Quentin Travers would have done if she’d got married, had a family. But then, whom had she ever liked enough to marry. Angel? When she was very young and naive, yes, probably. And now? She pushed all thoughts of her ‘Spike’ away. All this French air and talk of romance was making her dizzy.

Suddenly Joy’s hand shot out, stopping Buffy in her tracks. “Quiet! We’re coming to the village.”

The two Slayers crouched behind a bank of bushes and tried to see what was happening in the little village street. A couple of chickens scratched in the dirt road and somewhere a cow was bellowing, waiting to be milked. In the bright sunlight, little children were playing under the trees and in the distance Buffy could see a square where some old men were sitting, smoking and watching their friends playing boules.

“It’s quiet enough,” Joy murmured. “The children wouldn’t be outside if the Germans were around. Hopefully they’ll still be watching the plane, waiting for me to arrive there and for Pierre to turn up to meet me. Listen, I’ve got to get milk for baby. She must be fed soon or else she’ll start to yell. And she’s very wet as well! Stay here. The house I want is on the far side of the village. I’ll be back for you within the hour.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No!” She stared at Buffy, at the strange top and trousers. “You look so – foreign. Someone will notice and there are spies everywhere, reporting to the Nazis. No one will bother me. I look like all the other French women.”

Buffy hesitated. One part of her could see that Joy’s reading of the situation was probably right. After all, she was the Slayer who knew the area and what would look odd. But the other part of her, the part that had fought in too many battles, saved the world and her life – twice! – was pretty damn sure that she should go with her. She glanced at her watch. “OK, half an hour, not a minute more or else I’m coming to find you.”

Joy nodded and slid out from the shelter of the bushes and walked swiftly down the road into the village and vanish out of sight.

Buffy watched her go, then settled down to wait. The minutes ticked past with agonizing slowness and she wished that Spike was here. Even this time zone’s version would be someone to talk to. “Stupid vamp. Sulking around. He’s worse than Xander. If he’s planning some stupid trick rescue, I’ll….”

A farm cart lurched down the track, the pony’s hooves kicking up little spurts of dust. The sun rose higher and higher but still Joy did not return. The children vanished from their play and even the old men in the square wandered away, out of the mid day sun.

Suddenly she felt the hairs on the back of her neck flare and spun round. A vamp was lurching towards her and even as her hand flew to the stake in her waistband, she gasped. She had never seen anything so horrific in all her years as a Slayer. It was worse than Adam. It’s whole face had been rearranged! It’s eyes were in it’s cheeks and it’s mouth was somehow stitched across the middle of it’s neck.

And as she feinted to her left and swung the stake over and down, she realised that the word coming from it’s mouth was “Mercy!”

“Sorry, I don’t do mercy,” she snapped as she brushed the dust from her face.

“He wasn’t asking for mercy, Slayer.” It was Spike, appearing silently from the shade. “He said ‘Merci’. He was thanking you for his death!”


	5. Rivers of Time

We Will Remember Them….

By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter Five: Rivers of Time

 

London – 2001

Rupert Giles stared across the Watcher Council’s polished boardroom table to where Quentin Travers sat, gazing out of the window at the plane trees in the square below. Giles felt woozy. The Council had hired Concorde to bring him and Travers back from America but he felt as if his body was still somewhere mid-Atlantic.

“What do you mean, the project isn’t working?”

Travers sighed and steepled his fingers together, one by one. “Rupert, you know I can’t go into classified details with someone on your salary level. Suffice it to say that there are signs, portents, changes and shifts in events to make it perfectly clear that in 1943, Miss Summers, so far, has not succeeded in her task to return the Slayer called Joy to England.”

“She’s only been gone a day. How soon did you think she would manage that? Anyway, you won’t know for sure until she drinks the charm antidote and realises she can’t get back.” Giles’ voice tightened with pain. He still could not believe or accept what he had had to do. Why hadn’t he just told Buffy the truth? He knew in his heart of hearts that she would have sacrificed herself once again. Indeed, he had the oddest feeling that for some reason she would almost have been pleased to have done so.

Quentin Travers ignored him. He had turned back to the table and was busy working out figures on a notepad. “Hmmm, of course, it might be the vampire who is stopping her. I must admit that is a complication as I believe she has a sort of affection for him.”

Giles stared. “Affection? Vampire? Oh God, Quentin, you don’t mean Buffy is running around France with Angel?”

“Certainly not!” The older Englishman looked shocked. “Angelus is in America at this point in time. No, from what I can tell, the Army sent our old friend, William the Bloody, to save Joy.”

“Spike! Oh, I should have guessed!” Giles threw his file of papers across the table, watching them flutter to the floor. “I tell you, Quentin, whatever rivers of time exist, they have the greatest pleasure in sweeping those two together!”

“But she has no deep feelings for this vampire, does she? Apart from a lingering affection as you would have for a pet dog? This is important, Rupert. If only the Army’s records were clearer. They seem to indicate at first that William the Bloody was sent to rescue Joy, but later on – these jottings here – and here – seem to point to another reason for his presence there. I do wish I had been in the Council at the time. Sadly I was a mere youth. Ah, I wonder - perhaps Spike kills our Miss Summers in 1943 and that plays a part in returning Joy to England? It is extremely interesting.”

Giles took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose where they pinched. In twenty-four hours, if Buffy was still alive, she would drink the charm to return her to 2001 and it would not work. She would know she had been tricked by the Council, but at least she wouldn’t know he had been involved.

But he knew! He had colluded in this plot to send her back in time because it had been clear from the records that that had already happened and he trusted her to kill any ordinary vampire who got in her way.

But if he had known that it was Spike she would meet in France - a Spike who obviously was not killed by Buffy or anyone else – then he would have hesitated. For he was quite certain that the feelings she had for the vampire were quite different to those she had had for Angel. That vampire she had killed to save the world. Giles had a nasty feeling Buffy would sacrifice the world to save Spike.

He left Quentin Travers to his feverish calculations and went downstairs, though two hidden doorways, into a basement below the basement.  
In a small office he found an elderly woman, sitting knitting a long red scarf, watching football on a small television as some foul smelling concoctions bubbled away on the Bunsen Burners on her desk.

“Rupert Giles! How lovely to see you. It’s been such a long time. Goodness, I do believe it was at last year’s cricket match between the Council and the Salvation Army team. When there was all that fuss because the bails blew off in the last minute even though there was no wind. Do sit down. Mind the toad! And that piece of cheese. It’s got a little runny.”

“Dorcas – I can’t imagine what spell you’re doing that needs a toad and cheese.”

“What? Oh, don’t be quaint with me, Rupert. The cheese is left over from my lunch, as you very well know. Now, what can I do for you?”

Giles smiled at the old lady. “I need your help. I need a very special spell…..”

* * * * * *

 

France: 1943

 

In the woods just outside the village where Joy lived, Buffy and Spike stood, the dust of the vamp she had just staked still drifting between them.

Buffy shuddered. “Did you see it’s face? Who the hell did that to it?”

Spike shrugged. “Some scientists, I suppose, using their own initiative to creep into Herr Hitler’s good books. Vampires are fair game at the moment, Slayer. Round them up and ship them out. There are whole trainloads heading for Eastern Europe, so the rumours go. And not just vamps, people, too, so they say. People whose faces don’t fit into Herr Hitler’s idea of what’s bloody well correct. But hey, vamps always exaggerate. My fangs are longer than your fangs; I’ve killed a Slayer; I can wipe out a whole town overnight. You can’t believe everything you’re told in this War. Remember poncy Neville Chamberlain and his “Peace in Our Time” speech?”

Buffy turned away so he couldn’t see her face and peered out through the branches to the empty track that led down to the village. There was still no sign of Joy. She felt sick. She knew as much as any other girl of her age about the atrocities that had occurred during this War, but she hadn’t realised she might come up against them first hand. The camps, the extermination of millions of people. It was going on at this very moment but there was nothing she could do to stop it.

The word Spike had used – initiative – still sent cold tremors down her spine. He had no idea, of course, that a government agency in a country thousands of miles and nearly sixty years later would use the same word to describe themselves and their experiments on demons and vampires.

“I’ve no problem with ridding the world of vamps,” she said shortly, “although I’ve no idea why the Germans can’t just stake them.”

Spike raised an eyebrow and fished in the pocket of his leather flying-jacket for a cigarette and matches. “Most of them are staked, Slayer. But I’ve got a feeling there’s some laboratory back there at the Chateau where lots of fat little Nazi white-coats are playing “let’s arrange the next vamp’s features” even as we speak.”

“Must you?” Buffy wrinkled her nose at the strong, pungent smell of cheap tobacco.

“Well, yes, I reckon I must. Not going to kill me, is it?” He grinned at her and for a second she forgot where and when they were and found herself smiling in return, until she realised he was looking at her with an expression of astonished puzzlement on his face. “Anyways, Slayer. Where’s the other one?” Spike said. “Where’s Joy?”

“She went down to the village with the baby.”

Spike crossed the glade in three long strides and peered out through the branches, his face inches from Buffy’s. “Are you completely off your trolley? You let her go on her own? Excuse me if I’m missing something here, but we’ve just spent hours trying to rescue the sodding bint and you let her go!”

Buffy edged away from him. She couldn’t bear to have him that close and not be able to touch him. “She said she’d be back within half an hour. She had to get milk for the baby.”

Spike closed his eyes and groaned. “And you believed her?”

“Why shouldn’t I? She’s a Slayer. We don’t go around telling lies to other Slayers.”

“That’s the most ridiculous, poxy reasoning I’ve ever heard.” His fingers suddenly bit into her shoulders as he twisted her round to face him. “Listen, she’s a Slayer, right? She has a mission. The first thing all vamps learn is you never get between a Slayer and her mission or else you’ll end up dust.”

Angrily, Buffy pulled away from his hard hands. “I’ve got a mission, too, unless you’ve forgotten.”

Spike kicked out at a cluster of toadstools on the trunk of a tree. “Yes, exactly! Your mission was the same as mine - to get her back to England. Not let her out of your sight. So why isn’t she here? She must have been gone far longer than half an hour.”

Buffy shrugged. “Perhaps she met up with her husband – perhaps she’s trying to find someone to look after the baby – perhaps the Germans are closer than we know and she’s staying out of sight. There are a hundred different reasons, Spike, but she will come back. Anyway, where did you go when you walked away from us?”

Spike glared at her. God, he hated this American bitch so much. He’d met some aggravating women during his life and death but she was at the top of the list. He was worried sick that she’d lost Joy; that he would fail to get the English Slayer home and Dru would die.

“Great! We’re stuck here in the middle of the woods whilst the Slayer and her husband play hide the sausage! And strange as the strategy may seem to you, Slayer, I was checking to see how many Germans were still guarding the plane. I didn’t walk away from you – the two of you walked away from me. I thought you’d be there when I got back.”

Buffy felt a quiver of guilt. “We needed milk for Aurora. If she’d started crying – ”

“You should have let me kill it back in the Chateau.”

She glared at him in deep disgust and self loathing. Yes, he would quite cheerfully have killed an innocent baby. Even now, she knew that if he thought Aurora would stop Joy leaving France, he would kill her.

She shuddered. And she had let this – thing – touch her! Have sex with her. Run his hands across her breasts, down her thighs and – She forced her thoughts away from the Spike she knew in Sunnydale, wondering if she was going mad because the desire for him never lessened. Whatever he was now, she was ashamed to admit that she would still want the vampire when she got home. So what did that make her, apart from disgusting?

William the Bloody lit another cigarette. This American girl confused him. He could sense the anger, the hatred she had for him, which was quite right and proper. Hatred he could handle, especially from a Slayer. But then, underneath the loathing there was something else. A warmth, a roiling, boiling fire of – his nostrils flared – passion. That was what he could sense and it made him feel sick. This Slayer was having wickedly passionate thoughts – about him!

Every vampire bone in his body told him to get away from her, every part of him that loved Dru urged him to back off. But even as he was listening to all those instructions, he had thrown the cigarette aside and his hands were reaching for the Slayer.

Her jerked her towards him, hearing the little gasp as he head fell back. He was going mad! He must be. God, he must not kiss her. She was the Slayer. But he knew as his lips touched hers and her mouth opened under his that if this was madness, he welcomed it.

For a long moment the world spun round Buffy. The mouth, the taste, everything was Spike and she knew if she once lifted her hands to touch his head, she would be lost and he could take her, there, on the forest floor.

Then suddenly, they were both pushing away, cursing, spitting and scrubbing at their mouths. Buffy drew her fist back to punch the face she loved so much and stopped as a stutter of machine gun fire ripped through the trees.

Buffy and Spike flung themselves flat, then rolled desperately towards the bushes that surrounded the glade, seeking cover.

“What the bloody hell - ?”

“Are they shooting at us?” Buffy pulled a stake from her waistband and then pushed it back with a moan of disgust. Oh yes, Buffy, great idea. Let’s tackle a gun with a piece of wood!

Spike could still feel the power of her filthy kiss in his mouth and hoped to God they were and that the bullets would take out this Slayer once and for all. “Who the hell knows, Slayer? We’re at war, remember? People shoot at each other all day long.”

Another stutter of guns came from the woods on their right.

“I reckon they’re trying to make us give away our position. Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

“But what about Joy? We can’t go without her.” Buffy lifted her head enough to peer down the track into the village. It was deserted: the children and old men had disappeared. Not even a dog moved as somewhere the gun spoke again.

“Reckon she’s playing you for a fool, Slayer. And if we have any chance of finding her again, we need to be alive.” She turned to look at him and, to her great annoyance, found he was grinning at her, his eyes sparkling. “Well, you need to be alive. I just need to be no deader than I am at present.”

“You’re enjoying this!”

“A fight’s a fight, pet. Nothing better for a vamp. You can’t tell me a Slayer doesn’t feel the same way. What we’re born to do.”

“Don’t call me pet,” she replied automatically. “And I’m nothing like you. Never have been, never will be!” She glared at him as he pursed his lips and made kissing sounds, knowing that these were sarcastic and nothing like the sounds he made when he really – She ducked her head as more bullets flew overhead.

“I’m getting out of here, Slayer. Come or stay. Up to you!” And with a lithe twist, he wriggled backwards through the bushes and, bending low, ran deeper into the woods.

Buffy bit her lip. But getting all dead was not going to help with the mission to rescue Joy and so she took a deep breath and followed him.

* * * * * *

London – 2001

Dorcas Twigg, Witch in Residence for the Watcher’s Council, poured out a mug of liquid from the glass jar bubbling on top of a Bunsen Burner in her underground laboratory.

“Ahh, hot milk! Nothing beats it for relaxing mind and body, especially when you add brandy to it,” she muttered to herself and sipped appreciatively as she studied a large book whose pages had been stained over the centuries with far more exotic mixtures. “Really, Rupert Giles, it’s all very well you coming down here, all tweed jacket and apologetic smiles, asking for the impossible. You know Wednesday should be my half day off and I can just imagine the Accounts Depart giving me extra pay just because I have to make you a spell!”

Absentmindedly, she tickled the toad who’d crept into her lap as she read. “I must admit it’s a very intriguing situation, Flanagan. I do wish these records were clearer. I know there was a war on, but that was no excuse for bad handwriting. Right, it’s obvious that they want Joy Slayer back in England – but they don’t say why. They’re happy to sacrifice a future Slayer, Buffy Summers, because it has to be a Slayer who has already died and so has a back-up in place. But that means – ” she closed the book with a thud and leant back in her chair, tilting it onto its back legs at a perilous angle.

“So why not dispatch the back-up to France? From what I know of Faith Lehane, she would be far more suitable for the type of cold-blooded killing needed in 1943. Rupert mentioned something about Buffy Summers having feelings for the vampire. Was that why they didn’t send Faith? Because she would have staked him without a second thought? And why send William the Bloody to France? Why send a vampire at all and if you had to, why that one?”

The chair crashed down onto all four legs and the toad leapt for safety. Dorcas mopped some spilt milk off the book’s leather cover and frowned. She was missing something but for now that would have to wait. She needed to concoct a spell to give Buffy Summers a chance of getting back to her own time.

* * * * * *

France – 1943

The inside of the cave was dark and damp. Buffy had been startled when Spike had apparently vanished into a rocky outcrop surrounded by a tangle of brambles and thorny bushes.  
Wincing, she’d pushed her way through and found the cave entrance. Crawling inside, she exclaimed in disgust as her hands sunk into something revolting. “Ewwwh, what’s that?”

Spike was sitting with his back to the cave wall, enjoying the dark. “Could you make any more noise, Slayer? We’re supposed to be hiding from the German army, remember? And it’s the remains of a rabbit. I reckon foxes use this or perhaps wolves. Just skin and guts, no blood, sadly. I’m quite partial to a bit of rabbit gore if I can’t get anything better.”

Buffy crawled faster until she reached the part where the tunnel widened into a proper cave. She collapsed next to Spike, fingering the stake in her belt, glad of the damp rock at her back. “There aren’t any wolves in France. And how did you know this cave was here?”

In the little light seeping in from the entrance, she could see William the Bloody raise one dark eyebrow. “Oh right. You being a Yank would know all about French wild life, of course. And I found the cave when you and Miss High and Mighty Slayer vanished earlier. Thought we’d all need somewhere to kip tonight, somewhere the squalling of that baby wouldn’t be heard by the entire Third Reich. And must you sit so close? You’re giving me the creeps. I’m going to stink of Slayer for weeks.”

Buffy inched away, angry with herself, knowing that automatically she had leant against the shoulder that was usually always there for her to do just that.

She felt a wave of depression sweep over her. She was failing her mission; that was obvious. OK, she’d rescued Joy from prison, but jeez, surely that wasn’t enough? Spike’s task was to get Joy back to England; that was what was important to the Council and there was no way she could help him do that. The other part of her task – to kill the vampire involved – was not an option, of course, so she might as well drink the charm and go home.

But – she gazed into the darkness – she knew her depression was caused by something more than a sense of failure. She could hide from the Germans, but not from the truth - she was out of her depth.

Vampires, demons, apocalypse, end of the world stuff - she could cope with all of them and more. But this was a different type of war, one fought with guns and bombs and suffering on a vast scale. She knew from history books what evil was happening in Europe at this very minute and that nothing she could do was going to stop it.

But what would happen when she swallowed the charm Quentin had given her and returned to her own time in Sunnydale? Would she remember that this Spike hated her, couldn’t bear to have her touch him? And that was odd – she frowned. Why hadn’t they recognised each other when they’d met all those years ago at the Bronze? Just as important, would she remember that she had failed? That sometimes, one Slayer, no matter how good she was, could make no impact on world events.

“Why the long face, Slayer? You look as if someone has just killed your pet puppy. And talking of puppies, blimey, I could eat one now. Anything with blood in its veins. I’m starving.”

“You make me sick!”

“Likewise, I’m sure. Look, Slayer, why the hell don’t you just shove off back to where you came from? I’ve got work to do and babysitting you wasn’t in my brief. By the way, how are you getting out of France? Nice little boat waiting to pick you up on the coast somewhere? Good luck, mate. We’re a bloody long way from the Channel.”

Buffy didn’t reply. She fingered the little glass vial in her pocket, the charm that would return her to 2001. She wondered briefly what William the Bloody would say if she told him she was from the future; that in that time they were – she desperately tried to think of a word – friends, colleagues? – not lovers, of course.

“I’ll be leaving tonight,” she said suddenly. He had to know so that when she disappeared he wouldn’t think she’d been captured. “What will you do?”

There was a long silence. Buffy turned to look at him and in the gloom his face appeared stern, the curly brown hair looking so odd to her eyes.

“It’s getting dark; I’m going back to the village. I have to find Joy and take her to London, whether she wants to go or not. I have to, otherwise my princess dies – but – ”

“But what?”

Spike shrugged. “I’d love to have a go at taking out the poxy wankers who are experimenting on my kind. Straight forward staking, ok, that’s fair and square, part of the game. But you saw what they’d done to that poor sod in the woods. Bastards!”

“Not cricket,” Buffy murmured, remembering words Giles had used many times.

Spike stared at her, puzzled, then laughed. “Well, I’d never say that, not being the poncy sort of git who runs around in white, defending my wicket with a bat, but you’re right, pet. As the chaps at Lords would say, Definitely not Cricket!”

Buffy pushed her hair back from her face and tightened the ribbon holding it. “I’ve got a nasty feeling worse things are happening to humans than are happening to vamps, Spike. OK, listen, I’ll let you go first. Be safer than the two of us trying to get through the woods together.”

The vampire nodded. “Right. Well then – “ He hesitated: he’d been about to say ‘Take care’ which was stupid because he’d be overjoyed if the Slayer walked out of here and straight into a hail of machine gun fire. But then perhaps it would be better if she stayed alive for a bit longer. She’d draw the Germans away from him, especially the noise she made walking through the woods!

“Safe journey. Good luck,” he managed, then turned and crawled away up the tunnel towards the darkening entrance to the cave system.

“Bye,” Buffy whispered. “Take care of yourself, stupid vamp.” She took the little bottle out of her pocket and stared down at the greeny-blue mixture swirling inside. One sip and she’d be back in Sunnydale – back with all her worries and problems; looking after Dawn, trying to earn some money, worrying about Willow and totally freaking about her relationship with Spike.

Suddenly she realised something that had been hovering at the edge of her mind for hours. Since she’d arrived in France, she’d experienced more emotions, felt more genuine feelings than she had since the gang had brought her back from the dead. It was as if here she was alive again, really alive, not just going through the motions of life.

She twisted the cap off the bottle and tilted it slowly to one side. Why, she could sneeze and the charm would pour out onto the floor and that wouldn’t be her fault, would it? She would have to stay here, safe in France. Then the cold rush of truth swept over her. Dawn – there was always Dawn to think about. She’d promised her mom that she would look after her. Dawn needed her; she couldn’t vanish again from her sister’s life, as much as she wanted to.

Steeling herself, Buffy lifted the bottle and gulped the minty liquid down in two swallows. She shut her eyes and waited. Now the cave would vanish and she’d be back in Sunnydale, back in 2001.

Sighing, she opened her eyes in reluctant anticipation – and the cold, dark cave welcomed her once more!


	6. The Pact

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter 6

The Pact

 

William the Bloody had been standing in the dark woods, leaning against a tree, smoking foul French cigarettes for an hour now. He wasn’t quite sure why he was watching the cave entrance so intently, except that you should always know where your enemy was, especially if that enemy was a Slayer.

It was bad planning to have her at your back, even if she had said she was going home to wherever she’d come from. Yes, that was the reason; it had nothing to do with the oddest feeling he had that this mission was something the two of them should be doing together, not separately. That in some odd way there was more going on than he could work out on his own.

He was puzzled that she was taking so long to make her move. Perhaps she’d fallen asleep in there. Should he go in and – and what? Get a stake right through your sodding heart? Great idea, Spike.

Impatiently, he threw the cigarette away, wondering how the frog-eaters managed to smoke the stinking things. It wasn’t that he was anti-French; he and Dru had had some great times in Paris before the war started. And before the Great War, too, he remembered. They’d feasted for days at the Folies Bergere and no one had noticed in all the excitement and chaos.

Spike sighed. The chances of rescuing Dru were getting slimmer with every passing second. So what the bloody hell was he doing standing here, waiting to see what a certain Slayer was doing? He was ashamed of himself. Deeply ashamed. Just then his senses fired into life and there, crawling out of the cave tunnel was the girl uppermost in his thoughts. Spike frowned: she looked – different, paler, almost as if she’d had some sort of shock.

Standing up, brushing the dirt from those odd Yankee clothes she was wearing, she tucked the gold locket that swung from her neck back inside the tight vest thingy that clung to her body.  
Almost as if she’d known he would be there – which was ridiculous – she walked across the clearing to where he was standing. “You haven’t got very far, Spike. Lost the will to fight?”

“Thought you were going home? Been having a nice nap in your comfy cave, I suppose, while I’m out here – ”

“Smoking! I can smell them. Ugggh.”

Spike stirred uneasily. What was it with some females and cigarettes? Dru didn’t care but Darla was twitchy about it and here was this Slayer, acting as if her opinion was important to him. He stared at her face; there was an odd expression in her eyes, as if someone had given her bad news.

“I – I – I won’t be heading home just yet.” Buffy tried to keep her voice steady. She had a shameful, overwhelming desire to throw herself into the vampire’s arms and cry her eyes out. Geez, was she was getting weak and silly in her old age! On a whim, she pulled the glass vial out of her pocket and handed it to Spike. “What does that smell like to you?”

Spike pulled his hand away. “If that’s had some sort of holy water in it – ”

Buffy glared at him and reluctantly he took the bottle and sniffed cautiously. Then he ran a finger round the rim and sucked it. “Crème de menthe, Slayer. Best crème de menthe. What, you becoming a secret drinker now? Great, that’s all I need, a drunk Slayer on my hands.” He leered at her. “Although, I’ve always heard that Slayers get really randy when they’ve had a few bevvies!”

Buffy hardly heard him. She stood, one hand holding the lowest branch of the tree, staring up through the leaves into the starry sky above them. “Have you ever been betrayed?” she asked, her voice thin and distant.

Spike shot her a nervous look, making sure she wasn’t holding a stake in her other hand. “No – well, maybe before I was turned – but no, not even then, really. I was a stupid wanker who deserved the treatment he got. I was just plain lucky that my Princess came along and saved me.”

Once again Buffy didn’t seem to hear him. “You know, it isn’t just the hurt you have to deal with, the sense of loss, but you have to cope with feeling really, really stupid!”

Spike stared at her. How could she have been betrayed in the hour she’d spent inside the cave? Slayers were bloody weird creatures. No wonder the best thing to do to them was kill them. “I believe you, Slayer. But then you have all the fun of revenge and getting even to look forward to, don’t you?”

Buffy blinked, her thoughts spiralling back from an elderly Englishman who had brutally torn her away from her friends and family and sent her back in time without any way of getting home. Dawn was going to have to face losing her sister all over again.

And what was worse, Buffy had trusted him; that was what was eating into her soul. She’d been stupid enough to trust Quentin Travers! God, dying and coming back from heaven must have addled her brain in more ways than one and because of her idiocy, she was now stuck in 1943 with no way of getting home.

‘An hour ago, you thought you’d quite enjoy that,’ a little voice whispered inside her head but she blocked it out.

“Revenge? So not an option at the moment, Spike.” Wearily she sat on the ground soft with centuries of leaf mould and leant her back against the tree trunk. She was here and here she would have to stay. This was her mission; perhaps this was what she’d always been meant to do. Slayer – mission – never query why and where, just do it. “Why didn’t you go and find Joy? That was your plan.”

Spike flung himself down on the ground next to her. “And it was a good plan, Slayer! A great plan. Except - I’ve got a nasty feeling I’m being played for an idiot somewhere along the line. For all I know, my Princess could have been dusted by now back in England and I’m sodding well running around after a Slayer who doesn’t want to go home to Blighty at all!”

Buffy turned her head away from him, resting it on her clasped knees. Of course Dru wasn’t dusted because hey, look, there they both were in Sunnydale, killing the Anointed One in nearly sixty years time! Suddenly she began to realise something she should have seen a long time ago.

“Spike – how did you expect to get back to England with Joy? I mean, you flew here, didn’t you? No one knew you were coming. The Resistance weren’t involved, so there was no one to help you hide the plane. So – how did the guys who sent you expect you to escape? They must have known the Germans would spot the plane.”

The vampire frowned and tapped his boots together as he thought. “Everything you say links back to what I was feeling about this whole bloody scheme, Slayer. No one in the Army makes promises to a vamp. Dru could be long gone; they could have dusted her the minute I walked out the door. Must admit, I never thought about the plane. Reckoned the Slayer would have some red-hot plan once I got her out of the chateau.”

Buffy cast him a sideways glance and found her lips twitching. He sounded so like Spike. The brown curls might make him look different, but the eyes and expression were the same. It was so tempting to think this was her Spike but – he wasn’t. Although his hatred of Slayers might have been put on hold to save Dru, she knew he would go on to kill another one in New York and probably hundreds more people in the future. So was that why she’d really been sent back to 1943? Perhaps saving Joy was just a smokescreen to put her here, in a position to kill William the Bloody.

Her head hurt. Well, it obviously hadn’t worked – because she hadn’t killed him. And – the thought crept into her mind – she never would. She pushed that aside. She’d killed Angel to save the world. Why shouldn’t she kill Spike? She refused to think about that now.

“So, you feel betrayed, I feel betrayed, it’s a betrayal party. What I need to know is have you got a red-hot plan up your sleeve, Slayer?” Spike jeered.

Buffy shrugged and stood up in one smooth movement. “I’m getting tired of being the pawn in someone else’s game,” she said tersely. “We rescued Joy from the chateau and the Germans. I reckon no one knew about the baby when they sent us here. Aurora throws a completely different slant on everything. I can’t see how we can force Joy to return with us to England against her will, even if we did have some way of getting her there.”

Spike got to his feet. “So we’re done here! I’ll get out of France in some way and see if I can rescue Dru – if she’s still there. And if she isn’t – ” He vamped out and Buffy’s hand flew instinctively to the stakes in her belt. “There won’t be many of those soldier berks left alive.”

“Just one question, Mr Action Guy, how are you going to get home? Plane guarded by half the German Army, remember?”

“We need a diversion. If we can get the guards away, it might give me time to start the plane. Then, if you want, you can come with me. Really, Slayer, I don’t much care what you do. All I know is, I’m going back for Dru!”

Buffy flinched. How weird that those words could cause a physical pain in her chest. Almost like jealousy, which was, of course, ridiculous. Not my Spike, she kept repeating under her breath. Not my Spike. Evil, unchipped vampire who will try to kill me as soon as look at me when it suits his purpose.

“OK, a diversion. I’ll go along with that. Any ideas?”

Spike looked blank. Buffy bit her lip. “What we need is our own army. A gang of people who are willing to die for us, because that’s what we’ll be asking them to do. And I’d say the chances of finding such an army around here is pretty thin, wouldn’t you? I suppose we could try and contact the Resistance, but I reckon Joy will have told them to have nothing to do with us.”

Suddenly Spike grinned and in the moonlight, his eyes sparkled. “Don’t know about finding people ready to die for us, Slayer, but I know where to find a group who would be ready to fight the Germans.”

“Where?” But as soon as the word was out of her mouth, she guessed. “No! No way! No, Spike. You are not going to set free a whole pack of vampires and demons. You’ll do that over my dead body!”

“Over your dead body? Well, Slayer, that can certainly be arranged.” Spike dug his hands into the pockets of his pilot’s jacket, rocked on his heels and grinned at her. This was more like it! A fight with a Slayer. He could stop poncing around, being a good little vampire and not killing her. One fight and oh, it would feel so good to sink his fangs into that slender little neck.

He felt the roar inside his brain as he vamped out, then yelled in pain as her hand shot out and punched him on the nose. Before he could move, a foot had somehow come flying up from the ground, kicking him hard in the ribs. He spun, dodged and cracked a slap across her face, but even as he spun away from the blow that would have felled any other human, a fist was catching him and he was down on the floor with the Slayer kneeling across his body, her hands holding down his arms.

Spike relaxed. He knew damn well he could throw her off, but she wasn’t waving a stake around and his nose hurt too much. “Wod did you do thad for?” he muttered, sniffing blood back into his throat and swallowing happily. “Did I hurd you, Yankee girl?”

“Because you’re an idiot, that’s why! Honest to God, Spike, I should just stake you and be done with it.”

“Temper, temper, Slayer. Something’s got your knickers in a right old twist tonight, but there’s no need to take it out on me. I’m only following orders.”

Buffy shut her eyes briefly, remembering exactly what was going on at this very moment in Europe that people would justify by those words.

“Releasing an army of vamps and demons to ravage across the countryside is no way in any orders you received.” She was suddenly aware that she was sitting astride his body, her thighs close against his and rolled away quickly because it was all too familiar. “And you know I couldn’t stand by and let you do that.”

Spike stood up, cursing under his breath as blood dripped on his leather jacket. “They’re being experimented on; that’s obvious. They must hate the Nazis, Slayer. Surely that’s all that matters.”

Buffy shivered; the night breeze was chilly against her skin. The moon had vanished behind heavy clouds and the forest closed in around her, dark and impenetrable. She fingered the gold locket round her neck. Her one memento from home. That was another stupid thing she’d done, of course; set off from California without suitable clothing. She felt her hatred of Quentin Travers swell up inside her. Geez, couldn’t he even have warned her to take a sweater if he’d known she was going to be stuck here forever?

“What if I get them to promise only to kill German soldiers? Would that make it better?” Spike was beginning to run out of patience. She’d taken him by surprise when she hit him earlier; he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Nice Slayer, and a good fighter – but – he shrugged mentally, he didn’t need her, he worked better alone. A Lone Wolf, that was what he was, a vampire hero, killing and destroying and –

Buffy hesitated. Her moral compass was getting spun round like a spinning top. “Could you do that? Why would they listen to you?”

The vampire smirked. “Well, I don’t like to boast, but – hey, yes, I do like to boast! I have a reputation in Europe, you know. William the Bloody – and I’m an Aurelian and that makes me pretty high up on the command chain. They’ll do what I say – ”

“ – otherwise you’ll kill them,” Buffy broke in.

Spike shrugged. “Then you’ll have got what you want, won’t you, Slayer, so don’t go all Sunday School on me.”

Buffy hesitated. More than anything, she wanted to get back to England, to find the Watcher’s Council headquarters and discover what the heck she was supposed to be doing here in France - because she had already worked out that it had nothing to do with Joy. She was fairly sure that had just been Travers’ ploy to persuade her to time travel back to 1940s France.

And she had to admit, she’d been flattered; OK there had been the whole “Faith is still alive so you are semi redundant and you’ve just got back from being dead anyway” thing, but she’d still felt a flicker of pride that she was the one chosen to rescue the captured Slayer.

Geez, as if that was likely. If she’d been thinking at all, she’d have wondered why if that was possible, no one had ever been sent backwards or forwards in time to help her out during all the apocalypses, apocalypii, whatever the plural was! that she’d had to cope with. No, she was here for another reason and if she was going to have to live and die in this age, she was damn well going to find out why. Spike’s plane was her one way of escaping and if it meant Spike had to fly it, well, OK, she could live with that. But releasing vampires and demons – this was some messed up mission.

“Look – we’ll head back to where you left the plane and check it’s still there. The Germans might have moved it. If it’s there – ”

“You’ll agree to my plan?”

“I’ll think about it some more. No, don’t try and persuade me, Spike. That’s my decision. Let’s move. I’m getting cold; it would be nice to argue with you some night when it’s warm!”

Spike smiled. “Well, that’s never going to happen, Slayer.” He stared at her white face; she did look cold and he could see she was shivering. Whatever sodding material the Yanks were using to make clothes, they certainly didn’t keep you warm.

With a sigh, he pulled off his leather flying jacket and tossed it to her. “Here, put this on. There’s no point in having you so cold you’ll mess up in a fight if we run across some soldier boys.”

Buffy hesitated, then accepting the sense of what he was saying, shrugged on the jacket, pulling a face at the spatters of his blood on the leather. There was, of course, no warmth from his body in the fur lining, but within seconds she felt the shivering fade. “Thanks.”

Spike shrugged. “Not as if I need it. Hot, cold, all the same to me. I could walk around in my birthday suit and not bother.” He leered at Buffy. “Mind you, be a bit of a treat for you, that, wouldn’t it, Slayer?”

“If I wanted to make myself violently sick, yes, the sight of your naked body might well do the trick.”

Spike wagged a finger at her and in the dark, she could just see his eyes sparkling. “You’ll never know what you’re missing, Buffy Summers.”

“Oh yeah?” she muttered under her breath then changed the subject. “OK, hero boy, which way is the plane? And for heaven’s sake, keep an eye open for soldiers.”

Spike frowned and turning, head away along a narrow path through the undergrowth. He was angry with himself. Why the bloody hell was he flirting with the Slayer? Dru would tie him up from the rafters and stick hot pokers into every part of his body she could reach if she ever found out. If she’s still alive, a voice echoed inside his head and he felt a wave of apprehension sweep over him. Would they have killed her as soon as he left England? He didn’t trust the wankers as far as he could throw them. And he knew Dru wouldn’t have been a good prisoner. She’d have annoyed the hell out of her guards. Hell, she annoyed the hell out of everyone she met!

* * * * * *

London – 2001

Rupert Giles made his way through the twisting corridors deep beneath the offices of the Watchers’ Council to the small, extremely smelly room where Dorcas Twigg, the Witch in Residence spent her working hours.

The old lady looked up from her desk, a sandwich oozing bright blue, wriggling goo halfway to her mouth. “Ah Rupert, I wondered when you’d be back. Can I offer you some luncheon? I’ve been experimenting with tuna – trying to make it more interesting, but I’m not sure bright blue works for fish.”

Giles felt his stomach heave and resolutely turned his eyes away. “Yes, well, perhaps not at the moment, thank you all the same. Dorcas, I was wondering…I know you’re busy…but the charm for Buffy Summers…any chance of it being, well, you know, finished?”

Dorcas swallowed hastily – yes, perhaps that last spell on the tuna had been one too many. She rustled through the piles of papers, jars and bottles on her desk, moved a large, over- caffeinated toad from inside her coffee cup and with a cry of glee held up a small plate. On top sat a piece of toffee, striped in purple and black.

“This should do the trick – I think.” She frowned. “There are really so many variables, Rupert, dear boy. The notes from the War days are so disjointed. Why was that particular Slayer called back from the future? Why did they send the vampire, William the Bloody to France? And, most important of all – ” She peered at him over her half-rimmed glasses – “Why did Quentin ask you to make the original returning potion and not me? I have a high opinion of your capabilities – although perhaps not as high as you do yourself! – but that sort of magic is way above your head, Rupert. You must have known the mixture wouldn’t have enough power to return Miss Summers to our own time – why she could have ended up anywhere in the time line!”

Giles peered over the desk to inspect the witch’s work. Her words rang in his head and he knew she was right. But that was the reason he’d made a fake potion. He knew his skills weren’t great enough to make a successful one and there simply hadn’t been time to involve Dorcas; he’d known how vital it was that Buffy be sent to France immediately, that their whole world depended on it. But he’d also decided his Slayer would be better off there with a mission to live out, rather than stuck somewhere in the sixty years between if his return potion wasn’t strong enough. And Quentin Travers had agreed.

“It’s – complicated – political,” he muttered. “All that matters is getting Buffy back. But how – I mean, does she have to eat this? Which, let’s face it, begs the question of how as she is still in 1943!”

Dorcas sighed. “Really magic isn’t that complicated, Rupert. And for all that the Watchers of that time made a complete nonsense of their notes – half of which, I may tell you, are missing – thank goodness the office staff of that time had a little more sense.”

“Office staff?”

“Yes, Rupert, those girls who ran the offices – secretaries, clerks, typists, the people without whom no Watchers’ Council can function. There are at least thirty such people in this building now, although we do have boys as well as girls, and I doubt if you know the name of one of them!”

“Dorcas, just tell me – ”

“I looked in their files, not the Council members’ records, of course. And there it was. A note by a young post girl listing the sudden arrival ‘by magical means’ of an item thought to be a recall charm.”

“You mean, you send this – candy - back and what – Buffy somehow discovers it and knows she has to eat it? My Slayer has many excellent qualities, but somehow I can’t see her doing that!”

Dorcas sighed. “No, Rupert, of course I wouldn’t leave it to the judgement of a young girl. The Witch in Residence will receive this and know what it’s for. Her name was Valerie.”

Giles felt a wave of relief rush over him. He took off his glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose, wondering when his head would stop aching. “That’s good, that’s wonderful. Dorcas, you are a marvel. So, you’re sending it back right away?”

The elderly witch nodded and looked at him with pity in her eyes. “Oh yes, that part’s no problem. Well, it calls for a lot of concentration, some radishes and three separate spells but eventually the recall device will be in Valerie’s possession, ready for Buffy Summers to eat. But, Rupert, there’s one part of the plan over which I have no control, don’t forget.”

Giles looked at her, his eyes suddenly wary again.

“To eat it, Buffy has to be back in London and back here at the Watchers Council. Yes, I’m sorry, Rupert, but your Slayer has to escape from France before she can be returned to her own time. And, from what I can gather, the only help she has is a vampire called William the Bloody who would most likely kill her rather than lift a finger to assist her in any way.”


	7. Food for Thought

We Will Remember Them…

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chp 7 Food for thought

 

France: 1943

 

Buffy Summers lay on her stomach and wriggled through the long grass, trying to keep her head down so the lower branches of the bushes didn’t tangle in her hair. Insects were stinging any inch of her flesh they could reach and she could feel sweat running down her face even in the chilly night. It was pitch black here, deep in the undergrowth where the moonshine didn’t reach, a fact that obviously didn’t worry Spike at all. She could just make out the patterns on the soles of his boots as he crawled along in front of her.

Suddenly he stopped and she eased herself alongside him, trying to ignore the signals her body was valiantly sending to her brain Spike – body – Spike – touch – now! “What is it?” she muttered, her mouth close to his ear.

He turned his head, his mouth only centimetres from hers. “Could you possibly shout any louder, Slayer? I don’t think they heard you in Berlin!”

She glared at him and whispered, “I very much doubt the Nazis have vampire hearing. What have you seen?”

Carefully he pushed back a branch and Buffy stared out into the darkness. At first she could see nothing, then realised that only yards away at the bottom of a steep slope, a jeep with swastikas painted on the side was parked on a narrow track. Two German soldiers were standing by the side of it, talking, the rank smoke from their cigarettes curling up in the still night air.

“Two there – and another wanker inside the jeep.”

“Which way is the plane? Can’t we cut across the track behind them?”

She felt Spike shrug and instinctively knew he was about to lie to her. “If we use the track it’ll cut miles off the trip, Slayer. Sun’ll be up in a couple of hours. I’ll need shelter by then.”

Buffy sighed. Fighting alongside a vampire was great, but jeez, the “not in the sunshine” bit didn’t help. “We can take all three,” she whispered. She knew exactly what Spike was capable of in her own time. And this one was unchipped and far more desperate.

Spike turned his head once more and this time she could see what she was sure was amusement glinting in his eyes. “Three humans, Slayer? With guns? Fine by me, but not if you’re going to get squeamish! Still, I suppose being a Yank, you’re used to guns. Mind you, I’ve seen hundreds of Westerns. Dru and me, we sit in the back row of the Circle in the cinema - do you get those little cardboard tubs of ice cream in the States? I like those – and snacking on whoever’s sitting next to us, of course. Yes, Westerns are great: Billy the Kid, Jesse James, hey, do you know Roy Rogers?”

Buffy wondered if she’d gone mad. She was lying in a French wood, being bitten by French insects that seemed to have vampire tendencies the way they were after her blood, watching German soldiers with guns, listening to William the Bloody talking about cowboys and eating people!

Guns! She hesitated. The demons and vampires of Sunnydale used various weapons. She’d fought spears, axes, swords, magic of all kinds but with similar weapons and stakes, of course. The only gun she’d ever used had been the one Xander had liberated from the Army a couple of years ago. Well, sixty years in the future, give or take a year. Guns didn’t come into her life in Sunnydale and hopefully never would.

“Stop the cowboy chat and stick to the problem,” she hissed under her breath. “I say we go round the jeep.”

“I’m out of fags!” Spike replied and before she could stop him, the vampire was hurtling out of the bushes and had the first soldier by the throat before he could move.

Buffy shouted a word she didn’t even know she knew and launched herself after him. Her foot connected with the second soldier’s jaw with all the frustration she was feeling behind the kick. He dropped like a stone, his gun clattering to the ground. The man in the jeep was shouting now, trying to get out of the vehicle. Buffy swung her fist at him, then jerked it back. He wasn’t a soldier! This man was in civilian clothes, wearing a long black coat. She could fight German soldiers, but not a bystander – she was the Slayer, not a murderer.

“Slayer! Watch out!” Even as she dodged to one side, she saw the man trying to drag a pistol from his coat pocket. But the barrel got caught in the material just as Spike’s body crashed into him and they rolled on the ground in a tangle of arms, legs and vicious swearing.

Buffy flinched as she heard three muffled shots ring out, the man grunted and lay still as Spike rolled to one side, muttering under his breath. Buffy checked on the two soldiers – the one she had hit was unconscious and the one Spike had first attacked – had a ragged wound in his neck and was very dead. She squared her shoulders and turned back to the other man, her stomach heaving as she realised Spike was bent over the man, his eyes yellow, his fangs buried in the man’s neck.

“Spike! Stop! He’s dead!”

The vampire looked up, his mouth and teeth dripping with a liquid that the moon had bleached from red to black. Buffy fought back the nausea that was fighting in her throat. This wasn’t her Spike crouching here, this was William the Bloody and once again, she had managed to forget that.

He stood up, wiped his hand across his mouth and grinned at her as his eyes returned to normal and his fangs vanished. “You don’t have to tell me that, Slayer. I hate dead blood, but his was still pumping for a moment or two. Stopped now.” He stared down regretfully at the body at his feet and nudged it with his boot. “Bollocks! I’m hungry. Have both the soldier boys snuffed it?”

“Yes,” Buffy lied. There was no way she was going to let him feed off the unconscious German.

He tilted his head slightly and looked at her with an expression that she could have believed was concern, if she’d believed he had any feelings like that for her. “Aren’t you hungry, Slayer? You haven’t eaten.”

Buffy shook her head. She was bone weary, cold – even wearing his leather flying-jacket – and worried sick about Dawn. Was the same amount of time passing here as then? Had Quentin Travers stayed around to explain where she’d gone? Somehow she doubted it. She had a sudden urge either to cry or laugh hysterically as she realised the one person she could rely on to help and support her sister back in Sunnydale was the man with blood smeared across his face, now kneeling beside a dead body, rummaging through his pockets!

“What the heck are you doing? He’s dead, Spike. Let’s just get out of here before any more soldiers come along.”

Spike had pocketed a packet of cigarettes and a lighter than looked suspiciously familiar to Buffy. He thrust his hand into the man’s inside jacket pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers and a passport. For a second he froze, then, without a word, handed them to Buffy. “Well, well, well, no wonder he tasted good. This guy’s a Yank like you, Miss Summers. Was a Yank, I mean. Thought there was no sausage and sauerkraut in that pint of red.”

Buffy took the passport and papers. She couldn’t bear to look at them. They’d killed an American! But what on earth was he doing out here in the middle of France with a German escort? She pushed the papers into her jeans’ pocket. There was no time to work it out now. They needed to move and fast. Suddenly she realised Spike was no longer searching the body; he was inside the jeep and with a roar, the engine started.

“Hop in, Slayer. We’ve got ourselves a ride.”

“Are you mad?” Buffy shouted over the noise of the engine being revved very noisily under Spike’s enthusiastic boot. “We can’t steal a German jeep.”

Spike grinned at her. “Oh come on, Slayer! Don’t start having scruples again. We’ve just killed three people. Stealing their jeep isn’t going to bother them much. Now – get in.”

He watched the indecision flit across her face and wondered suddenly why he didn’t just drive off. What the bloody hell was he doing? Why was he bothered about leaving her on her own or if she was hungry? He’d forgotten for a couple of minutes just who this girl was. The Slayer – well, one of them because that bitch Joy who he’d risked life and limb, OK limb, to rescue from the chateau was still alive and kicking which made nonsense of all the old vampire tales of One Slayer being Chosen and Another One arriving when the first one popped her clogs. And he couldn’t wait to tell Liam that!

But he had to admit this one was a great fighter. Even as he’d been killing his soldier boy – sodding hell, he hated men in uniform! - he’d seen the way her foot had connected with the other guy’s jaw. She’d fought as she moved - as if to music, as if she’d been dancing. And boy, would he like to dance with her! And the kick had dropped the poor squaddie like a stone – although he hadn’t been killed. No, little Miss Slayer had lied to him about that. Hey, vampire here, he’d almost said to her. Quite capable of knowing when there’s still life in a body.

And he was still sitting here, his foot on the clutch, waiting for her to make up her mind! “Get in!” he shouted impatiently. He wouldn’t leave her. No, he’d keep her where he could see her. Yes, that was why he was hesitating of course. He felt a wave of relief sweep over him. He wasn’t getting weak, just cunning; a Slayer at your back out of sight was not a good plan!

Reluctantly, Buffy swung herself into the seat next to him as the jeep rocketed away down the track, the headlights burning into the dark. She’d so wanted to let this vampire drive off on his own: taking the jeep was so bad an idea. But if Spike found the plane, she had to be there to insist that he took her back to England with him. She needed the Watchers’ Council if she stood any chance at all of ever getting home. And anyway, it was, she reckoned, always the best thing to know where Spike was all the time. An unchipped vampire at her back – not a good plan!

They drove in silence for a while; Spike eased up on the reckless speed as the track twisted and turned through the woods. Buffy caught sight of eyes in the dark, lit up for split seconds by the lights, little animals out hunting even smaller animals and being hunted in their turn. She huddled deeper inside the leather flying-jacket, glad of its protection from the wind whistling through the open windows.

The jeep veered wildly across the road as Spike bent over and rummaged under his seat. “What the hell are you doing?” Buffy yelped.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Slayer. I can drive this one-handed.”

“Look, you’re dead already, crashing won’t worry you. Me, not so dead and it will worry me.”

He sat up straight again and waved a thick, brown parcel at her that looked sticky and stained. “Here.”

Buffy stared at him in disgust. “Uggh! What the heck is that? And no, I don’t want to touch it.”

Spike shrugged and tossed it into her lap. “Blimey, Slayer, you’re the most squeamish girl I’ve ever met. It’s food. I reckoned those soldiers would have something in their jeep to eat. Sausage and cheese and black bread by the smell of it. Still, if you’re not hungry, I’ll throw it away.” He reached over to grab the packet, his fingers brushing her thighs and making her shudder, remembering the last time she and Spike had driven out into the desert in a car he’d stolen and what those fingers had done to her.

She snatched the parcel up and unwrapped it, trying to forget the future. Suddenly she was ravenously hungry and even the sweating cheese and stale bread looked and smelt miraculous. Buffy took a large bite of spicy sausage and sat back with a little sigh of pleasure. She decided she could relax for a few seconds: she could forget the men who’d died, forget Dawn, forget the missing Joy and her baby, forget the mission that had gone so wrong. She would eat and regain her energy for whatever lay ahead.

She pulled off the band that was holding her hair so tightly back from her face, enjoying the feel of the wind soothing the skin where her temples ached. Just five minutes…that was what she would give herself…just five minutes…

The jeep droned on through the woods, Spike fighting to keep it on the rough track that led uphill through the trees. He was heading east, towards where the first faint glimmers of dawn were changing the sky from midnight black to darker blue. He was puzzled. OK, weird to be driving through France in a German jeep with a Slayer at his side. Even weirder was that now the Yank had fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder. He didn’t think Liam would bloody well believe him.

The jolting and swaying that had rocked Buffy to sleep, suddenly stopped as the German jeep slowed and stopped. With a cold shock, similar to being doused in icy water, she realised her head was pillowed on Spike’s shoulder, a lock of her hair fluttering against his lips. She flung herself sideways, trying to make more space between them.

“Nice snooze, Slayer?”

Buffy glared at him, pushing her hair behind her ears. The band holding it had vanished sometime during their drive. “Where are we? Have we reached the plane?” She gazed into the darkness, slashed through by the jeep’s headlights that faded away as Spike turned off the engine.

“Not yet. I know what you said about no vamp army, but there’s something I want to check first.” He swung himself out and vanished into the gloom, Buffy scrambling after him.

“Spike!” she hissed. “Come back. Where the hell are you going?” Geez, could he be more infuriating? They needed to find the plane, disable the guards and get the hell out of France. Why the heck was he still thinking about a vampire army? She pushed aside the thought that this Spike seemed far less inclined to follow her lead than the one back in Sunnydale.

The jeep had stopped at the side of a narrow track cut through the woods where the ground rose sharply on both sides. Spike was striding up the steep slope without a backward glance.

Buffy looked at the sky and frowned: dawn was approaching fast. To the east were tinges of pink and mauve and the stars were vanishing from view. Spike could do what he liked, but there was no way she wanted to be in full view of any German patrol that happened along this road in daylight. And she was sure someone would be searching for the jeep soon, and the American civilian whom William the Bloody had killed earlier!

She fingered the papers that Spike had taken from the body. Who the heck was he, this man who’d obviously been quite at home with the German military? She started to pull his passport out of her pocket, then stopped. Spike reached the top of the slope, threw himself flat and then beckoned urgently to her. The dew laden grass slid beneath her feet as she climbed the slope through the trees and she was about to complain bitterly about her jeans being soaked right up to her knees when he caught her hand and pulled her flat onto the ground next to him.

“What - ! ”

“Look, Slayer. Down there.”

Buffy wriggled forward and cautiously parted the damp grass in front of her face. She realised they were on the top of a ridge that ran along the hillside forming one side of the valley where the chateau stood. She could just make out its dark bulk against the paler sky, the beautiful, soaring turrets and steep, copper-tiled roofs, the small square yellow lights of windows cutting through the gloom. Even as she watched, a door was flung open and four soldiers appeared. They were half-carrying, half dragging two bodies between them, heading towards a wire fenced compound that had been built around a long, brick, windowless hut.

As Buffy watched, one of the soldiers unlocked the door and the others flung one prisoner inside. The other tried to break free and with a careless, backhand stabbing, one of the guards staked him and he exploded into dust. In the cold, clear air, she could hear the guards laughing as they made their way back to the chateau.

“Vamp prison,” Spike muttered, rolling over onto his back and gazing up at the ever-lightening sky. “Knew it must be there somewhere. I reckon they’re experimenting on them inside the chateau and that hut is where they keep them during the day. Did you notice, Slayer, no windows?”

Buffy eased herself back from the ridge and sat, hugging her knees, gazing down at the vampire beside her. She hesitated; what could she say? They were vampires – why should she care what happened to them as long as they got staked in the end? Terrible things were happening to living, breathing human beings at this very moment in camps all over Europe; things that Spike wouldn’t probably even believe if she told him.

“I’m sorry. I suppose it’s upsetting for you.”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Upsetting? Who me? Bloody hell, no, not particularly. Was just curious, that’s all. Load of vamps I don’t know – foreigners, more than likely - ” He sat up. “Nothing worse than a poncy French vamp, believe me. They’re all so particular about whom they eat and where. You wouldn’t believe it. They won’t bite anyone too old or too young and watch out if they offer you blood, it’s sure to have had garlic added to it!”

Buffy mentally pushed his remarks aside, as she always did when Spike talked about vampire customs. She realised she did, but had never worked out why. Over the years she’d discovered so much that would have made Giles the happiest Watcher ever. But somehow she’d never told him everything she’d learnt from Spike. “So why did you want to see where they’re being held prisoner?”

Spike stood up, jamming his fists in his pockets. He shrugged. “Never know when information like that will come in handy. I mean, I reckon we could let them out and we’d have ourselves a great little army. But you’ve already made your views about that plan clear.”

She shook her head. “It’s too risky. How can we trust them to just kill Germans? I can’t leave hundreds of vamps roaming free in France and I can’t stay here to watch them. I have to reach England. I – I had a mission – to rescue Joy from the Germans. Now, well now I need to talk to the people in charge, those who know why I was sent to France in the first place. There must be some way of getting me back to – ” She’d been about to say “my own time” and stopped. “America,” she finished lamely.

Spike looked as if he was about to reply, then shrugged again and strode away down the hillside, back to the jeep. He didn’t know what was wrong with him, didn’t like these feelings that the imprisoned vamps sent through his body. He wasn’t some poxy do-gooder. He was the Big Bad, Scourge of Europe, William the Bloody! He had no right to be so angry and upset – and that was what these feelings meant.

He quickened his pace. He reckoned it was being close to a Slayer that was making him have all these weird emotions. It was something catching! Like measles. She was quite right, blast her, whatever he said, he did feel upset. How the hell had she known? And why should it matter to him that vamps were being tortured? They weren’t his friends or family, just Froggie bastards, couldn’t even speak the King’s English.

He flung himself into the jeep and started the engine, not looking up as the American girl climbed into the seat next to him. The sooner he was away from her influence the better. He should have bitten and drained her as soon as they met. God knows what he was doing, flogging round France, acting as her bloody chauffeur. And all the time Dru was in danger of being topped by the army. And once they discovered that Joy wasn’t coming back to England, they would finish the job on his Princess without a qualm. He would have failed in his task, as far as the authorities were concerned.

“We need to find shelter again,” Buffy said suddenly as the jeep bucketed down the track, back into the woods. “Get off the road, into the trees.”

“Sun’s not up yet.”

Buffy sighed. “If you look behind you, there’s a large yellow object just coming out from behind a cloud. I really don’t care if you vanish in a puff of dust, but not while you’re driving.”

Spike braked so hard they both jolted forward. “You sodding well drive, then!”

Buffy rubbed her ribs where she’d hit something hard. “I’m sitting on the wrong side! And you know I hate driving.”

Spike frowned. “Listen, Slayer, I know you can fight, you’ve got stupid hair that keeps falling down and you’re too thin. Apart from that, no, I do not know you hate to drive.”

Buffy bit her lip. Geez, it was so easy to forget where and, more importantly, when she was. “I thought I’d mentioned it,” she muttered, trying not to catch his gaze. The Spike in her own time always knew when she was lying. Why did she reckon that this one would find it just as easy?

Spike swore violently, started the engine again and swung the wheel, forcing the jeep off the road into the trees. They jolted down a slope, crashing through bushes until the jeep buried its nose deep under the thick, trailing branches of an ancient holly tree and stalled.

He gestured out of the window. “The plane’s somewhere behind those trees, Slayer. Help yourself. Fly away. Get the hell out of my life. Why don’t you just bugger off back to America? Bloody Yanks! You wouldn’t catch me living over there if you paid me.”

He vamped out and Buffy’s hand moved instinctively to the stake in her waistband – then stopped. It didn’t take a genius to realise that she wouldn’t, couldn’t, kill him, otherwise he wouldn’t be in Sunnydale in sixty years time. Suddenly, she realised something else. Dru survived the war, too. So, that meant Spike returned to England, his mission a success. But how the heck could that be? There’d been no sign of Joy, the English Slayer, since she’d left Buffy outside her village and vanished with Aurora, her baby daughter. The chances of them finding her and persuading her to return to England were surely less than zero.

Buffy refused to break her gaze away from the golden eyes that glared at her and, as she watched, his face shimmered back to human. For a second, the man who played such an important part in her life was there in front of her; angry, upset, rocked by some emotion he couldn’t put into words. Then, as if a curtain dropped, his expression changed again and the cocky, arrogant, couldn’t-care-less vampire was back.

He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one with the metal lighter he’d stolen from the American he’d killed. They sat in silence, the only sound the ticking of the engine as it cooled.

Spike dragged smoke deep into his lungs, enjoying the bite and taste, ignoring the way the Slayer’s nose wrinkled at the smell. At least she was quiet. He had to admit that, surprising as it was. Most women yakked away all the time. Dru never shut up, bless her, although he hardly had any idea what she was on about.

Dru! His Dark Princess, the love of his unlife, the woman who had saved him from mediocrity. He wondered what she was doing and pushed away the appalling, treacherous thought that in these circumstances he was happier having the Slayer at his side. But he still should be trying to get back to Dru, to save her. The vamps in the chateau prison would just have to fend for themselves.

A breeze was beginning to move the branches of the holly tree, the pointed leaves scratching against the jeep’s roof. But Spike was safe enough from the sun; no light pierced through the tightly-woven, dark green mesh that surrounded them.

“We stay here today and try for the Tiger Moth tonight – if it’s still there,” he said at last. “We’ll need to take out the guards fast - so there won’t be time for you to be squeamish, Slayer.”

Buffy glared at him. “That’s exactly what I am, remember - the Slayer, not a murderer.”

Spike threw the stub of his cigarette out of the window and shrugged. “Is it murder to kill during a war?” The vampire sounded amused.

“I suppose you’ve enjoyed all the death and destruction and pain that’s been happening.”

“Been a bit of a laugh, must admit. Bloody hell, Slayer, until the Army captured Dru and me, I reckoned it was some of the best times we’d had. You see, in a war no one notices the extra bodies lying around.”

Buffy tried not to react to Drusilla’s name. Making her voice as non-committal as possible, she said, “She’s your partner, this Dru?”

Spike turned his head, eyes sparkling. “You’ve hit the nail right on the head, Slayer. She’s my girl. My reason for being. She helped me when – well, when I stopped being a bloody fool and became the real me.”

A dull pain seemed to hang in Buffy’s chest. She knew she should change the subject, but it was like having a tooth that ached – you had to keep prodding at it to make sure it still hurt.  
“Does she feel the same way about you?”

Spike looked puzzled. Did Dru love him as much as he loved her? He wanted to say yes, but – he wasn’t truly worthy of her and there, in the background, was always the brooding memory of Liam who only had to snap his fingers and Dru would -

“She’s there when I need her,” he said tersely. “And I’ll always be there when she needs me.” He peered at Buffy – the shadows from the dark green holly leaves had given her face a strange colour. She looked pale and sick. “Is there anyone in your little Slayer life you feel that way about? How about your Watcher? Aren’t the two of you supposed to be all lovey-dovey? That’s what the rumours say about Slayers and Watchers.”

Buffy rolled down her window and let the cool morning air flood into the stuffy jeep. She felt tears pricking at her eyes and blinked them away. What the heck was wrong with her? She’d always known that Dru meant the world to Spike.

“There is one person – recently I came back from….from a long journey. I’d – I’d been away and didn’t want to be home, didn’t know how to pick up my life and just carry on. He – this person – well, I wouldn’t have got through those weeks without him.”

Spike yawned. He was tired and as thrilling as Love life of Slayer probably was, the thought of sleeping was even more tempting. “Does he know where you are now?” he muttered.

Buffy looked at him sharply, but he’d wriggled down in the hard bucket seat, his back at some impossible angle, his boots propped up on the dashboard. “Yes,” she murmured softly. “He knows exactly where I am.”

An hour passed and Buffy moaned as she woke from an uneasy sleep. She sighed and rubbed her forehead, trying to ease the headache that was beginning to throb under her skull. Her dreams hadn’t been pleasant. She’d been killing German soldiers, knowing all the time that what she was doing was wrong for her. She’d fought wars with demons and vampires, but that was different, a battle between her and them. The outcome of an Apocalypse would be even more devastating than what was going to happen in Japan in a couple of years from now. She’d saved the world and died doing it. But that was her job! This was not her War. She’d been sent to accomplish one thing and technically she’d succeeded. Joy was free.

Now if she could just get to the Watcher’s Council in London, surely someone there would know of a way to return her to her own time.

“Can you hear water running?” she asked suddenly.

Spike, a picture of indolent grace, opened his eyes. “That was the best dream I’ve had for ages and you ruined it, Slayer. Yes, there’s a stream somewhere nearby. Why? – ” He sat up and stretched. “Thirsty?”

Buffy nodded. She was thirsty, hungry and ached all over. She was also disgustingly dirty and if a demon had appeared and offered her a hot shower in exchange for her soul she might have been tempted.

Spike peered out of his window. The sun seemed to have gone in; the day was dark and cloudy. Perfect. He sighed. “Stay here. I don’t want you blundering around so any patrolling Huns can hear you.”

“How are you going to – ?” She stopped as he pulled a silver spirit flask from his back pocket, unscrewed the top, gulped down the contents and grinned at her. “Never was a boy scout, but killed plenty in my time, pet. Knew this would come in handy one day.”

And before she could speak, he’d slid out of the jeep and vanished into the gloom of the forest.


	8. "I will fight!"

We Will Remember Them…  
By Lilachigh

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

Chapter 8: “I will fight!”

 

Buffy sat with her eyes shut, savouring the quiet of the woods, waiting for Spike to return with water. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been able to just sit and do nothing. There was always something that needed doing, someone who needed slaying, someone to help or kill – all snipping away at her, piece by piece until she was all gone.  
She was so thirsty! She wondered which she wanted more – a drink or a shower. Grimly, she was well aware that days without washing properly had left her feeling gross and probably smelling the same way. But then she imagined bottles of cold, cold soda, icy milk, juice with ice cubes rattling the sides of the glass –  
Opening her eyes, she sat up. Had she been asleep? No, just – just relaxing. But she was also aware that Spike had had enough time to bring her a whole lake of water. Where the heck was he? Stupid vamp!  
Buffy slid out of the jeep and stared apprehensively into the dark green undergrowth that surrounded her, listening for the sound of someone approaching. But she could hear nothing, just the faint rustling of leaves in the breeze.  
She opened her mouth to yell Spike’s name – then stopped. She had no idea who was wandering around in these woods. Spike had told her they weren’t far from the plane – unless he’d been lying again!; there would be German guards, soldiers on patrol, the last thing she needed was to end up a prisoner with no passport or identification on her.  
Suddenly a trickle of doubt wormed its way into her mind. Why had she relied on Spike returning? Why should he? She didn’t mean anything to him, just another Slayer, someone to be avoided or killed, depending on how he felt at the time. All he wanted to do was get back to England to rescue Dru – the woman he loved.  
And everyone leaves you in the end, a little voice whispered in her head. Your Dad, Angel, Parker, Riley – they all go. Why should Spike be any different?  
OK, the Spike from her own time, chipped, professing to love her, she knew without a doubt that he would move heaven and earth to bring her water. But this Spike - ?  
Grimly she forced her way through the holly bushes, trying not to wince as their sharp edges scratched her face, glad that she was still wearing the heavy leather flying-jacket Spike had given her.  
She almost felt a click in her brain. He’d given her his jacket when she was cold! He hadn’t needed to. If her reasoning was right, he should just have looked at her shivering, shrugged and forgotten about it. But he hadn’t! So there was one tiny part of him that was identical to her Spike. Which meant –  
Buffy struggled to force the answer away, not look at it, think about it, even acknowledge that it existed, but she couldn’t. That meant that the chip had nothing to do with Spike’s behaviour towards humans! Oh, it stopped him feeding, but it didn’t make him kinder or more considerate or more able to fall in love –  
Buffy shut her thoughts into a tiny box, buried it deep in her head and threw away the key.  
Suddenly she stopped – she could hear voices. Cautiously she eased herself out of the dense holly bushes and found she was looking through some spindly trees to a small clearing.  
Her stomach roiled with tension as she took in what she was seeing. There were several people in the glade – men in dark clothing, their swarthy faces hard and determined. Joy, the English Slayer, was standing talking to one of the men, her baby propped on one hip.  
Behind her in the shade, was a farm cart drawn by a weary looking piebald horse. And slumped on the ground, half under the wagon, his arms tied above his head to the top of one of the wheels, was Spike! Even from this distance she could see the bruises on his face and as far as she could tell he was unconscious. What the hell was going on?  
Pure, unadulterated anger surged through her body and she reacted before she could think, covering the ground between her and Joy before anyone could move. But as she skidded to a halt next to the English girl, Buffy caught the unmistakable glitter of steel as knives were drawn.  
“Joy! What are you doing? Geez, Spike’s on our side. Let him go!”  
The other Slayer spun round, relief washing across her face. “Buffy! You’re alive! We thought the vampire had killed you. Pierre, my husband, has been trying to make him talk. Now I can get rid of him.”  
She drew a stake from her belt and whirled to face Spike, her hand drawing back over her shoulder, the baby jostled on her hip bursting into tears.  
Buffy had never moved so fast before – somehow she got between Joy and Spike and her hands fastened over he girl’s wrist, deflecting the stake to one side.  
“No!”  
The two girls stood, glaring at each other.  
“He’s a vamp! Why are you protecting him?”  
A torrent of French broke from the taller of the men. He strode forward, eyes gleaming and Buffy could see a wicked looking knife, held low by his side.  
“Look – Joy – tell your husband that Spike’s on our side. I know he’s a vampire. I know you don’t understand why I’m protecting him. I hope you’ll trust me on this, but listen to me – I will fight all of you if I have to. He’s only here to help you get back to England.”  
Joy gazed at the slimmer girl’s face. She made a swift gesture towards her husband who stopped, but didn’t put his knife away. Two other men moved slowly towards them and Buffy realised in sick horror that to save Spike she would have to fight humans, not demons or vamps, but real, live people who were doing what they thought was right.  
Could she do that? Then Spike groaned behind her and she clenched her fists. Yes, she could. She would!  
Then, suddenly, Aurora, the baby, chuckled, her tears vanishing as she reached out a chubby hand towards Buffy. She’d seen the gold locket swinging from the Slayer’s neck and tried to grab it.  
The tension broke and Joy gently handed the child to her husband. “OK, Buffy. We won’t fight you over this. But you have to go. The Germans are hunting for Pierre and his resistance fighters. They’re confused about you and the vampire; you’ve done so much damage, they believe the British have sent in special troops to help us. That is good. We plan to launch an attack on the chateau while they believe we have more fighters than we do.”  
Buffy reached down to touch Spike’s face. “He can’t fly the plane like this.”  
Joy hesitated, then said, “Tonight we intend to take out the soldiers guarding the plane. He must be ready by then. It’ll be your only chance. If that fails, then you’re on your own. We can be of no further assistance. We have plans that do not involve you.”  
Buffy bit her lip. “And you still refuse to return to England?”  
Joy smiled and glanced across at the tall Frenchman holding their daughter. “I am with the man I love. I will always be a Slayer. I will do my duty, but I will not leave Pierre. I must fight at his side, even if that means I die at his side.” She gave Buffy a strange, sharp look. “When you fall in love, you’ll understand what I mean. But then, perhaps you already do.”  
Buffy felt hot colour flood her cheeks; she couldn’t reply, she didn’t dare.  
“He’ll need shelter until dark,” she said at last.  
Joy nodded and gestured to one of the men. He approached, knife at the ready and Buffy tensed. But all he did was cut the ropes holding Spike’s arms upright. Picking him up, he slung him roughly in the back of the cart then gestured to Buffy and snapped out something in French.  
Wishing she’d paid more attention – well any attention come to that – in French class, she vaulted up into the cart. The man gestured again and she lay down next to Spike as a smelly tarpaulin was pulled over their heads, plunging them into complete darkness.  
She could hear the chink of harness and someone talking to the horse. She realised it had been taken out of the shafts and was being led away.  
Joy’s voice sounded close to her ear. “This is the best we can do to hide you, Buffy Slayer. The cart is often left here unattended; be silent; the Nazis may come but hopefully will see nothing out of the ordinary. Tonight we will return and attack the plane.”  
“What if Spike isn’t conscious by then?”  
Even buried in the dark, Buffy could almost see the other girl shrug.  
“Then you will both die. Vive la France!”  
The air trapped under the tarpaulin smelt of earth and rotting vegetables. Buffy strained her eyes but she could see nothing in the dark. Tentatively, she reached out a hand, then flinched as it touched cold flesh. Spike was still lying unconscious next to her.  
She wriggled herself over onto her side and touched him again. That was his hand, then the thick wool of the sweater he was wearing.  
“Spike!” she whispered, but there was no reply. Cautiously, she ran her hand upwards until her fingers touched his chin, his cheeks, his mouth. In the darkness – so utterly without light – she knew she was safe. And the vampire was unconscious. He would never know. She just wanted to feel once more the outline of his face under her hand, the texture of his skin, the outline of his body. As soon as he woke they would be enemies again, but for a few minutes, surely she could pretend this was her Spike and they were lying in his crypt, under a pile of carpets, happy together?  
Spike came back to reality in one swift second. He had no idea where he was, but he did remember that the poxy French bloke and the English Slayer had ambushed him. How shameful was that! Being hit over the head by a girl holding a baby!  
He could still smell Slayer and was staggered to realise he was in one piece, that he wasn’t a cloud of dust floating towards Paris. He opened his eyes. Nothing. Just darkness. Blind! He’d been blinded. Oh great, that was just what he needed. Then his other senses came to life and he realised the smell of Slayer was not a memory; she was there, all around him, invading every sense, every nerve ending. Her hands were all over him, on his body, tracing his limbs, touching his – oh bloody hell!  
Spike knew he wouldn’t score well on any test of will-power, but reckoned he deserved a sodding prize as he forced himself to stay still, keeping his eyes shut as her fingers seemed to reluctantly leave that part of his body to creep higher, to sweep little circles over his face, her hands busily tracing the line of his cheekbones, the scar tissue on his eyebrow.  
But another scent was vying for his attention now. There was blood! Close to his mouth, blood on her face. The hunger inside him to feed swept up, consuming him with its sweet fire and before he could stop himself, he reached up and licked her cheek, groaning as the blood oozing from a cut in her skin sent him into game face.  
“You’re awake!” He felt her shift away from him, so fast whatever they were lying on rocked, as if they’d been –  
Buffy’s whisper was angry but he could hear a tinge of embarrassment there as well. And so she bloody well should be. Touching a fellow when he was flat out was – well – he felt his face change back as he licked his lips. A right turn on that had been. Regretfully, he wondered how far she would have gone if he hadn’t reacted to her blood? Now he’d never know. Pity!

“Where the hell are we and why are you bleeding all over me, Slayer?”  
“Be quiet! Joy and the Resistance have hidden us in a cart. When it’s dark we can try for the plane and get the hell out of France. And I am not bleeding all over you as you so elegantly put it. It’s just a few scratches from branches and things.”  
“Tasted good. Bet you taste really great, Slayer. Who knows, one day I might get more than a mouthful!”  
“The only way you’ll ever get to drink my blood is if I’m dead!”  
“Oh, I can manage that, pet, don’t you worry.”  
“Will you shut up? We’re supposed to be hiding. There could be a German patrol outside right now.”  
Spike tried to sit up and banged his head on the tightly drawn tarpaulin. His whisper was vehement. “Sodding hell! God, I’ll be glad to get out of this country. Give me England any day. I can’t stand these rotten garlic eaters, even if they are supposed to be on our side.”  
“You’re a vampire, Spike. As far as you’re concerned, everyone’s on the other side. And anyway, how did you manage to get caught? That wasn’t very clever.”  
“Thought we were supposed to be quiet?”  
Buffy lay down, shuffling as far away from him as she could. She could still feel the colour flaming in her cheeks. Thank God he hadn’t woken up sooner. She’d have died rather than let him know she’d been touching him. She wriggled around, trying to get comfortable. Her throat felt like sand; she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a drink.  
“Thirsty, Slayer?” His voice came out of the darkness.  
“Nothing I can’t handle.”  
There was a rustling and she flinched as his hand unerringly found hers in the dark.  
“Don’t panic! Not trying to touch you. I mean, that wouldn’t be right, would it, vampire and Slayer, evil and good? I can’t think of anything more repulsive, can you? No, just thought you might like a swig out of this. Joy and her French bloke jumped me just after I’d filled it.”

Buffy felt the cold outline of a flask pushed into her hand and with a sigh of relief she brought it to her lips and painfully swallowed cool water that tasted faintly of brandy.  
“Thank you,” she muttered, pushing it back in his direction.  
“The pleasure’s all mine, Slayer,” he said gravely and lay down again, wondering why the hell he didn’t just bite her now and be done with it. He’d tasted her and wanted more. Much more. He wanted - Bloody hell, he was losing his marbles. Thinking like that! What the hell was wrong with him? It was her fault for touching him. How long was it now since he and Dru had made love? Weeks, months probably because she’d been in one of her weird moods when she was convinced she was a nun and he’d been away on that poxy submarine with Mr I Wish I Was Michael Collins and it had taken him ages to get back.  
Minutes passed, then hours. He could tell from the Slayer’s breathing that she’d fallen asleep. Well, that at least that stopped her rabbiting on at him. It was peaceful here, in the dark and he was surprised just how tired he was. He shut his eyes and was dozing off when the girl next to him suddenly began to moan and kick, her fists punching in all directions.  
“What the bloody hell? – Slayer – wake up, Buffy! You’re having a nightmare. For god’s sake, be quiet Slayer. You’ll get us both shot!”  
Buffy was dreaming. She was back in her coffin, awake, alive, a roaring in her head as her body clamoured for air, clawing at the satin lining, fighting the wooden lid. She couldn’t breathe, must have air - dark, all dark – escape, must escape – fight – get out!  
Then a heavy weight forced her arms down to her sides – legs like steel trapped hers beneath them and a familiar mouth was moving on her lips. She couldn’t hear what it was saying – the roaring in her head was too great, then the lips stopped moving and she opened her mouth for a kiss that was achingly familiar, so cold it stopped the fever that pulsed through her body.  
She was back in heaven – she wasn’t in her coffin, hadn’t returned to Sunnydale – that had all been a dream. Cold hands were on her body now, caressing her breasts, keeping her safe. This was heaven, this was delight and in the silent dark of her dream she gave herself up to a slow, languorous pleasuring. Then, as the shudders of ecstasy subsided, she slid back down into sleep.  
Spike rolled away from her, his body satisfied, his mind in turmoil. He hadn’t meant to do that, but he’d had to stop her shouting out and once she’d pulled him close and her body had welcomed him, he’d been lost.  
Well! He’d had his very first Slayer and could still feel the aftermath sweeping through him; feelings he couldn’t even name were consuming him. He’d never experienced anything like this before, but he pushed that thought deep into his brain, locking it into a little box and throwing away the key.  
“It’s some sort of Slayer magic,” he muttered. “Dru’ll kill me if she ever finds out.” But then he realised she wouldn’t because no one would ever know. He would rather be a pile of dust than tell anyone, ever, what he had just done. He just wished with all his undead heart that he wasn’t having to fight the urge to crawl across the space between them and make love to the Slayer all over again.


	9. Counting the Cost

We Will Remember Them…  
By Lilachigh

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter 9 Counting the Cost

 

London – 2001

The Library of the Watcher’s Council was the most important room in the whole building: oak shelves, grey with age, covered every wall, groaning with the weight of priceless books and manuscripts. The windows looking out onto the beautiful gardens at the back of the building were shrouded in dark red velvet curtains that were never opened and the small desk lights shed only a little more illumination than their much lamented oil ancestors.

But for all its sombre appearance, Rupert Giles had never seen it empty before. There had always been a custodian sitting at the entrance and one or two researchers perched high on library ladders, making copious notes and muttering under their breath.  
Now the only person in the vast room was Quentin Travers, sitting in a leather chair, not reading, not writing, just gazing into space, sipping brandy from a crystal goblet that had been old at the Battle of Waterloo, his face impassive.

“Any news regarding what happened in France?” Giles asked, closing the door behind him.

“News? Ah, no, unfortunately not.”

“Shouldn’t something have happened by now? I mean if Buffy failed to rescue Joy then another Slayer would have been called and then – ”

Travers glanced up at him and sighed. “Do sit, Rupert, and stop hovering. Patience has never been your strong point, has it? The fact that the time line has remained unaltered is, so far, exactly what we wanted to accomplish by sending Miss Summers back to 1943.”

Giles stared at him. He’d never liked his boss, could see no humanity showing on that bland, upper-class face, hear no warmth in the cut-glass accent. But he’d known him a long time and one thing he was sure of, the head of the Watcher’s Council was hiding something. Not lying, no Quentin was far too devious to lie outright, but not all the truth about Buffy’s mission to war-torn France had been revealed.

“So she’s still alive?”

“So far, I imagine, yes, she is.”

Giles pulled off his glasses and began to polish them on the end of his tie. He took a deep breath and confessed, “I’ve – I’ve taken precautions to have a charm prepared to help her return to her own time – if she can get back to England.”

Travers looked at him and a fleeting hint of amusement crossed his face. “Of course you have, Rupert. I would have expected nothing less of you. I take it you have used the services of Dorcas, our dear Witch in Residence? After all, that is what we pay her for.”

Giles felt a fool – no, more like a schoolboy facing his headmaster. “You’ve known all along that’s what I would do!”

Travers smiled. He poured himself another brandy. “I thought, being aware of your involvement with Miss Summers, that you would think it wise to make some convoluted plans to get her back to her own time.”

Giles pushed his spectacles back on his nose, feeling the temper he had kept in close check for so many years begin to stir in his blood. “I had no choice. You persuaded me that for the good of the world, she had to stay in 1943. I agreed to betray her for that reason and that reason only. Have you any idea what that felt like for me? You didn’t seem to be concerned if she lived or died, but I am still Buffy’s Watcher. I am responsible for my Slayer until she dies.”

Travers swirled the alcohol round in the goblet, savouring the rich aroma. “Really, Rupert, you have such a volatile nature sometimes that I wonder how you ever passed to be a Watcher. Academically, she is no longer the Slayer, remember. Faith Lehane holds that role. Miss Summers is – in this time – expendable. You know this as well as I do. The cost of that charm to return her from 1943 when her task is completed would have taken almost my entire year’s budget.”

“Cost!” Giles stood up, towering over the older man, his fists clenched. “Betraying Buffy has been to do with how much it cost not to?”

Travers looked slightly bewildered. “You keep bandying the word ‘betrayal’ about. I would call it a necessary reduction of obsolete stock. You seem to think we run on unlimited funds here at the Council, but I have a yearly budget and a vast number of projects to fund. Evil, sadly, does not seem to have the same fiscal restrictions as Good in this world, or if it does, it certainly doesn’t have to answer to a Board with its yearly accounts.”

“You sicken me!”

Travers shrugged. “Losing your temper will get you nowhere, Rupert. I would advise you to calm down and try to think rationally about the whole affair. No real harm has been done. As I surmised, you have made provision for Miss Summers to return to her own life. I will have the cost of that charm deducted from your salary in yearly instalments. You should be out of debt to us by, oh let us say 2011. Obviously, feeling as strongly as you do about things, you will not be too concerned to pay for your gallant gesture.”

“The charm only works if she manages to return to England in 1943.”

Travers nodded. “And believe me, I most fervently want her to achieve that goal. I believe that is why our ancestors here at the Council sent the vampire, William the Bloody, to France. They had no idea Miss Summers existed, of course, but in order to save his paramour’s life, they relied on him helping Miss Joy return to England. And by default, if he doesn’t kill Miss Summers, he might well be of use to her. They knew that was important and we knew from the fragments of records that remain that a Slayer helped him do so. In our turn, we had to choose a Slayer - Miss Summers was the obvious choice to make.”

Giles waved away the thought of Spike helping Buffy in France. For all he knew, she had already dealt with William the Bloody. After all, no matter what her misguided feelings for Spike had been, she had no connection whatsoever with the vampire he used to be.

* * * * * *

“It’s no use lying over there sulking, Slayer.”

“Be quiet! The Germans might hear you,” Buffy hissed from the far side of the farm cart. “And I’m not sulking. I had – I had a nightmare, that’s all.”

She stared up into the darkness where the tarpaulin had been pulled tightly over the top of the cart. She’d woken up feeling wonderful – relaxed, lazy, every limb tingling, ready to take on the world. Exactly how she felt when she and Spike – the truth had hit her with the power of a lightning strike.

A nightmare – something she’d experienced many times since Willow had dragged her back to this life. Shut in, trapped in her coffin, fighting to get out! Then he’d been there – Spike – and everything had seemed simple and straightforward. With him she could conquer any night terror –

Then – but she couldn’t – they hadn’t – it wasn’t possible! Not this Spike. Not now. No, geez, surely that had just been a dream? She hadn’t let this Spike make love to her. He was unchipped, evil, not her Spike. Fearfully and surreptitiously she’d run her hands down her thighs, shuddering as she realised her jeans were tangled around one foot.

Buffy pulled her hands away as if they’d been scorched, confusion flooding through her body. Why did she feel she’d been unfaithful to Spike? If the evidence was to be believed, she’d just had sex with him in her sleep. But this wasn’t ‘her’ Spike. This was William the Bloody, unchipped, evil, who didn’t love her, who still adored Drusilla. And Buffy was honest enough to know that was what was causing her confusion. She could sleep with Spike at home in Sunnydale because he loved her and she –

“It’s no use lying over there sulking, Slayer.”

“Be quiet. The Germans will hear you. And I’m not sulking. I had – I had a nightmare, that’s all.”

“That’s interesting, Slayer - ” the whisper came from inches away as he rolled towards her - “I had the same nightmare. I dreamt I did a Slayer. It was one of the most horrifying moments of my whole unlife!”

Buffy struggled to pull up her jeans. “Can you just not talk? I was asleep – and – and - if you ever mention this to anyone – I’ll – I’ll – ”

“Me mention it? I’d rather you staked me! I reckon you’ve put some sort of curse on me and I’m telling you, Buffy Summers, I’m staying as far away from you as possible from now on.”

“Good!”

“Great!”

Then, before she could speak again, his hand was across her mouth, cold against her hot cheeks. For a second she thought he was trying to make love to her again, then she heard the sounds he’d heard seconds before her, the tarpaulin was pulled away and soft, cool night air swept away the heat from her body.

“You two are supposed to be quiet!” Joy was glaring down at them, outlined against a dusky sky. “We could hear you talking from the other side of the clearing. What if we’d been the enemy? This isn’t some sort of game we’re playing here. This is for real.”

Feeling ashamed, Buffy sat up and swung herself out of the cart, refusing to look at Spike. “You should try being shut up with him for a whole day,” she muttered, knowing she was in the wrong.

Joy’s cool gaze never faltered. “Your choice, Buffy. I would have staked him long ago.”

“Oi! Don’t mind me! I’ll just stand here, shall I?”

The two Slayers ignored him. “I should have let you!” Buffy said crossly, then swiftly shot out a hand to stop Joy reaching for the stake in her belt. “But he could still be useful. I need to get back to England and he’s the only one available to fly the plane.” She gazed round; Joy’s husband, Pierre, was not with her, just a couple of slim, swarthy guys who were staring at Spike with dark, wary eyes. “What’s the plan?”

Joy looked tired. “There are German patrols everywhere. We think there must be something big happening at the chateau tonight or tomorrow. Lots of important looking cars have been arriving. Lots of heel clicking and saluting.”

“How does this affect us?”

“Well, on the plus side, they now only have one soldier guarding the plane.”

Buffy sighed and scrubbed at her face with her clenched fists. “There’s a minus side, I can hear it in your voice.”

Joy sighed. “Pierre and the rest of the Resistance cell are planning to launch a surprise attack on the chateau tonight. He can’t spare anyone to help you take back the Tiger Moth.”

Buffy frowned at the tone in the English girl’s voice. “You don’t agree with him?”

Joy shrugged. “There are too many of them and too few of us. But he insists we have to make a – a statement. To show the Germans we are not defeated, that we will always fight them – to the bitter end if need be. To show London that they should send us more supplies, more guns and ammunition.”

“Great!” Spike said, lighting a cigarette. “Now we’re involved with a group of death and glory boys.”

“Shut up, Spike. We realise you haven’t got a clue about fighting for your country.”

William the Bloody stared at the American Slayer through a cloud of acrid smoke, fighting to keep his face expressionless. Weird – he felt hurt by her words. How bloody stupid was that? A poxy Slayer bint couldn’t possibly have the power to hurt him. Of course she was right. This war was nothing to do with him or any other vamp: it had been fun the last couple of years to watch the death and destruction.

Except – and he thought of those poor vamp idiots captured by the Germans, being experimented on, turned into God knows what, then exterminated. What had the Slayer said, “not cricket”? That was the sodding truth. So perhaps this war did have something to do with him after all.

For a minute he was tempted – he could tell them he would stay and fight with the Resistance. Release the prisoners, turn them into a vamp army that could really hurt the Germans. Then he mentally shook himself. How could he have forgotten Dru? She was still there, captured, in England. She was his priority: he had to get back for her sake and if that meant flying the Slayer across the Channel, then that was what he would have to do.

An hour later, “Soup?” Joy handed Buffy a bowl full of thick, rich, vegetable soup. The American Slayer moaned gently and burnt her lips as she gulped down he first mouthful.

“Ow! But geez, that’s good.”

Joy smiled briefly and hoisted her baby further up her hip.  
“My mother-in-law made it!”

Buffy stared around the farmhouse kitchen, but it was hard to tell which of the black dressed women working there she should thank. “It must be weird, being married and a mom and still a Slayer.”

Joy shrugged in a very French fashion. “It was my choice. I recognise my calling, my mission, but I am a woman, too, not just a Slayer. I wanted Pierre and – “ she laughed – “Aurora here followed on! I can just imagine the Council’s reaction when they know. Perhaps if I had met Pierre in peacetime – but then, I wouldn’t have been here in France if there hadn’t been a war. And the very fact that you are here, Buffy, means that in wartime, all the rules change. I’ve never heard of there being two Slayers alive together.”

Buffy muttered vaguely and sipped her soup with a little less haste. Obviously Joy had never died and come back from the dead. No other Slayer had been called to replace her. There was no Kendra, no Faith in her life. She sighed, feeling oddly detached from the busy scene around her. She and Spike had been escorted in silence through the forest, out to a stretch of rolling farmland and up a rough track to a rambling farmhouse.

The stone flagged kitchen was dark and smelt of garlic, onions and Gaulouise cigarettes. Plans for the attack on the chateau later that night were obviously well advanced and silent, dark-eyed Frenchmen came and went like shadows. Buffy had seen rifles and hand guns being removed from their hiding places in the ceiling and could feel the same sense of anticipation, fear and excitement that she recognised from when she and the Scoobies had gone up against forces far bigger than them.

But this time she was not involved, and that was what made it so weird. She didn’t know the plans, hadn’t been asked her opinion or consulted in any way. Buffy knew it was all happening and was real, but she couldn’t get over the fact that it was like watching a film on TV, one you’d started looking at halfway through. You didn’t know the beginning and wouldn’t know the end because you were going out to the Bronze in a minute and this was just to pass the time.

“Why is your vampire sulking?” Joy asked suddenly, handing Aurora a rusk to chew on – from the red patches on her cheeks, the child was obviously teething.

“He isn’t my vampire.”

The English Slayer raised a dark eyebrow and sighed. “OK, why is the scowling vampire sitting on the floor in the corner over there, sulking?”

Buffy hesitated; Spike had said nothing at all to her on the journey to the farm. There was obviously something wrong; she’d never known him silent for more than a few minutes. “He might be hungry. And to be honest, Joy, I need him to fly me back to England. He’s no use if he’s too weak. Have you got any blood at all – pig, sheep, cow?”

Joy frowned; it obviously went against her whole being to feed a vampire, but even she could see the logic behind Buffy’s words. She vanished into the back scullery and returned with a small mug of blood. “My mother-in-law slaughtered a pig this morning,” she said briefly. “We use the blood in sausage.”

Buffy tried not to shudder, thanked her and took the mug across to Spike. “Here. I thought you’d prefer this to soup.” She sat on the floor next to him as he drank, trying to avoid the sight of the blood glistening on his lips and teeth. “You’re very quiet,” she said at last, puzzled by the lack of barbed remarks coming in her direction.

Spike wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Buffy had returned his flying jacket to him and although the worn leather was dark brown, not black, it still creaked in a fashion that was oddly familiar.

“Nothing to say, pet. You and your Slayer pal have the got the whole situation under control, that’s obvious. Look at them – running around playing soldiers. Think they’re all so clever. Wankers!”

Buffy frowned. “They’ve got a plan. OK, I don’t know what it is, apart from attacking the chateau, but it doesn’t concern us, does it? We’ve just got to get to the plane and get out of here.”

“Without the Slayer.”

“OK, yes, without Joy. OK, I know it isn’t what we were sent here to do, but there’s no way she’s going to leave France and her husband. The Council will just have to accept that.”

Spike splayed his legs out in front of him, tapping his boots together, watching little bits of mud fall to the floor. “All right for you, Slayer. You’ll just get a slap on the wrist and be sent on your merry way back to the good old U S of A. But if I fail, then my Dru gets staked.”

Buffy felt the words “good thing, too” swim up into her mouth and she swallowed them back desperately before they could escape.

“So maybe it might be better for me to stay here in France. If the Council doesn’t know I’ve failed, they might not top my girl. As far as they know, I’m still sodding well trying to get Joy back home. That should count for something.”

“How do I get to England? I can’t fly a plane.”

Spike sighed. “Think, Slayer. Even if I agreed to go, do you really believe the Germans will let us fly out of here? I might not be much for plans, but even I can sense that these Resistance blokes are walking into a nice little trap. Just one guard on a British plane? VIPs at the chateau? Oh, come on, pet. I haven’t stayed alive this long by ignoring the obvious. It’s got ‘walk into my parlour said the spider to the fly’ written all over it. The Germans want this Pierre bloke; they’ll use every trick in the book to get him.”

“You may be right, so shouldn’t you talk to him and Joy – tell him what you think?”

Spike looked at her, frowning. What planet did this American girl live on? “Hey, vampire here, remember? They wouldn’t listen to me if I told them their house was burning down and pushed their hands into the flames to prove it! You might as well go along with them for the ride and have some fun killing Germans.”

Buffy fell silent, staring out across the big, farmhouse kitchen, watching as various members of Pierre’s group got their final orders. She had never felt so helpless or so confused. Was this what she should be doing? Helping Joy and her husband attack the Nazis? Should she forget about going to England?

For the first time, she wondered exactly what she would find, whom she would speak to at the Watchers’ Council if she did get back. Some sort of 1943 equivalent of Quentin Travers, she supposed. But they would have no idea who she was or how she had come from the future to help. They might even reckon she was completely nuts and lock her up. But wait, hadn’t someone known a Slayer had to be called - she shook her head. It was all too complicated.

Bleakly she contemplated her future: at home, Willow didn’t know what Travers had arranged, so she could do nothing to help. And here, in this time? Perhaps she could convince the Council that she was a Slayer. Maybe they would – what? – give her some sort of pension? Find her a job? No, more likely they would just get rid. A girl out of time and a Slayer, that was a combination far too volatile for any good Council boss to sanction. And the one person she knew in this time would be returning to his lover!

But if she stayed here in France? Could she make some sort of life here? Get involved with the Resistance? Kill people? Make a difference? No, she was the Slayer; she couldn’t just turn into a soldier, out of time and place.

“So now it’s your turn to be quiet. What’s going through your pretty little Slayer head? Bet it involves me and death somehow. And do you have to lean on my shoulder? It’s giving me the willies.”

Buffy inched away from him, angry with herself for the way her body seemed to have a life of its own when it was anywhere near the vamp. Geez, how many times did she have to say William the Bloody, not your Spike before her brain would start to accept the fact? It was just that when she was tired, Spike’s shoulder seemed – comfortable.

“Oddly enough, Spike, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not the central feature of every thought I have!”

Eyes glittered towards her and one eyebrow lifted sardonically. “You’re lying, Slayer. I’ve no idea why, but I can tell that you are. You smell different when you lie. Sort of carnation. Of course, there might be a touch of garlic from that soup you’ve been drinking.”

“Oh gross! What’s with all this vampire smelling and scenting? And I so do not smell different when I lie!”

“Ah, so you admit you do lie?”

Buffy glared at him. “If you must know, I was wondering if Joy could find someone in her group who could fly the plane, if you’re determined to stay in France.”

“He’d have no idea where to go. Private airfield, Watchers’ Council property, all very hush-hush. You’d be shot down as soon as you neared the coast. Anyway, Slayer, you were sent here by the Council, so they must have given you an escape route out of the country. Why are you so determined that I should fly you back to Blighty?”

Buffy fingered the little glass bottle in her pocket: the charm that hadn’t worked, the charm that told her Quentin Travers had never meant her to return to Sunnydale. “I thought – the route I was given collapsed,” she said at last. “I just – I want to go home.”

Her last words were whispered, almost to herself and she realised with a flash of surprise, that she meant them. She’d felt nothing for Sunnydale or her friends, or even her sister since Willow had pulled her back to this world. Now, she was overwhelmed with sensations of longing; she was, she discovered, desperately homesick. For her home, her friends, Dawn and – she forced herself to be brutally honest – she wanted the Spike of that time. The chipped, snarky vampire who would do anything for her, who professed to love her – a guy she could rely on one hundred percent.

Spike glanced at the white-faced girl sitting next to him. There was a tremor in her voice that unsettled him in ways he couldn’t understand. The Slayer was upset, unhappy – he could sense that, which was odd in itself, but even so, he should have been delighted. Sod it, he was delighted! An unhappy Slayer was a plus, her guard would be down and one day soon, when they weren’t on the same side, he would strike and kill his second Slayer! That was more than Liam had ever managed.

So there was no reason to feel on edge, as if her unhappiness was seeping into his own body. No reason at all to want to help her get home if that would just take that sad expression off her face. And so he was appalled to hear a voice that sounded like his saying, “Bloody hell, Slayer, stop whining. I’ll fly the poxy plane back to England!”


	10. Trapped

We Will Remember Them…  
By Lilachigh

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter 10 Trapped!

 

It was just after midnight when the last Resistance fighters left the farmhouse and melted away into the dark. There was no moon and ragged clouds chased across the starry sky. It was a perfect night for an attack.

Buffy and Spike stood outside the farmhouse, watching as Joy and Pierre embraced fiercely. He bent to kiss Aurora, who was asleep in her mother’s arms, then with a final word to his wife, he strode off down the track, swallowed up instantly by the night.

Joy, dressed all in black, handed her daughter to her taciturn mother-in-law, slung a rifle across her shoulders, then turned to Buffy. For instant there was the gleam of tears on her face. “I’ll say goodbye, then, Buffy. We’ve left you a car so you can drive through the forest. Once you see the chateau in the distance, you’ll be able to find the plane, won’t you?”

Buffy nodded. She had already been told that there was no one spare to help them recapture the Tiger Moth. She and Spike were on their own and if they didn’t succeed, Joy and her husband would be far too busy with their own battle to help them.

“What do you hope to achieve by attacking the chateau?” she asked, desperately worried for the English Slayer’s safety.

Joy shrugged. “Pierre believes it will show the Germans they cannot defeat us. We will always be at their throats. We don’t intend to capture it. We know we’re not that strong. But we will embarrass the commandant in front of his important visitors and kill some Nazis as well.”

“And what happens to your kid if you get killed?” Spike sounded bored, but Buffy recognised a tone in his voice, the same one that was there whenever he spoke to her about Dawn.

“I have no intention of being killed, but if that should happen, then she has Pierre’s mother and aunt to care for her. They are returning to the village now. This farmhouse will be left deserted. Aurora will be quite safe. But – “ she hesitated, as if the next words were too difficult, too unusual to say out loud – “thank you for asking.”

She turned to Buffy and smiled. “I wish you luck, Buffy Summers and a safe journey home.” And with that she spun on her heel and vanished up the track into the night.

“Stupid bint,” Spike growled. “Typically French – all guts and glory and no thought to what might happen if they fail. Come to that, no thought of what might happen if they succeed! The bloody Germans will take their revenge on every French man and woman they can find.”

“Joy’s English, not French,” Buffy snapped. “And I’m sure everyone is prepared to fight in their own way. What do you expect them to do – just sit down and suffer under the   
Occupation? That isn’t going to achieve much, is it? At least they’ll go down in history as heroes.”

Spike lit a cigarette and glanced at her through the smoke, curiosity showing in his eyes. “You’re all the same, you Slayers. I reckon you’ve all got some sort of bloody death wish. Well, I suppose waking up every day wondering if it’s going to be your last could get a girl down. Make you be tempted to just let it happen. Is that what you want, Slayer – to be a hero, to have a place in a history book as you die? Hey, let me kill you and you’ll have that. The second Slayer done by William the Bloody – how’s that for fame?”

Buffy fought back the urge to tell him that the second Slayer he would kill hadn’t even been born yet. If he knew it would be another thirty-four years before he added to his total, perhaps that would give him something to think about! Not as clever as he thought, was he? But –

“The vamp hasn’t been turned yet who can kill me,” she retorted, then before he could answer she said, “Do we have to talk? Can’t we just find the plane and get back to England? Haven’t you got some sort of girl friend to save?”

Spike winced. Dru – he’d forgotten her again! What the hell was wrong with him? He tossed his cigarette away and strode across to the car. He flung himself inside and turned on the engine, scowling as he gazed ahead, revving the engine with a heavy boot, refusing to look at the Slayer when she slid into the seat next to him.

“Ready! Right, let’s go be heroes,” he jeered and letting in the clutch, the car shot forward, bouncing wildly down the farm track, across the fields and into the woods beyond. He didn’t understand the anger that was flooding through his body. This blonde American girl was the most irritating, aggravating bitch he’d ever had the misfortune to meet and the second – the very second – they touched down on English soil he was going to bite her so hard that -

“Slow down, Spike! You’ll kill us both. What the hell’s wrong with you?” Buffy yelled as the little car skidded and swerved on some wet mud and she was flung hard against the door. She groped for a non-existent seat belt, then braced herself as the vampire swung the wheel again too violently and the car bounced over a small log lying across the path, hit a tree trunk and came to a juddering stop with a tinkling of glass and the smell of burning rubber.

Buffy found herself lying across Spike’s legs, her face buried in his crotch. With a yelp, she struggled upright, wincing as cuts and bruises made themselves known in no uncertain fashion. Spike brushed glass out of his hair and licked the blood from a myriad of cuts on his hands. “Sorry!” he muttered.

“Sorry. Sorry! Is that all you can say? What the hell were you thinking of – oh, no, forget that, you weren’t thinking at all, were you? Now we’ll have to walk.”

She kicked the door open and half fell onto the ground. The headlights had smashed in the crash and the light from the stars made little impression through the thick trees. She could hardly see Spike – just the pale gleam of his face. “Would have helped if you’d dyed your hair blond earlier,” she muttered. “Could always see that in the dark.”

“What – you dreaming about me dying again, Slayer? Give me a break here. I’m trying to get you home.”

“Try harder!”

With a snarl, Spike grabbed her arms, shimmering into game face and back into human. He pulled her towards him, spun her round and pushed her hard against a tree, suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to teach this mouthy female a lesson, show her just what he thought of her, reduce her to a quivering mass just as he had earlier in the farm wagon. Then he would feel – oh god, he’d feel -

Buffy felt her limbs relax. A dark night, Spike, his hands reaching for the buttons on her jeans, tearing at her top, the anger and attraction raging between them – oh god, she wanted him so badly. If he didn’t take her right now, she’d –

Suddenly she could see stars, hear explosions – his hands left her as spinning round, they stared back through the dark towards where they’d been only minutes before – the farmhouse.

“Gunfire!”

“They’re under attack!”

Spike cursed violently. “Nazis haven’t waited. Said all along it was a sodding trap. Joy and her cohorts are all up at the chateau and the Germans are mopping up the small fry to cut off their retreat.”

Buffy listened to the stutter of gunfire and then, through the trees, she could just see an orange glow beginning to stain the sky. “They’ve set fire to the farm!” Suddenly she clutched Spike’s arm. “Spike – Pierre’s mom and aunt - Aurora! Have they had time to get clear? They were still there when we left. That’s only minutes ago. We were lucky; the Germans must have been surrounding the place.”

Another clatter of gunfire rang out. “I’m going back,” Buffy snapped.

“No – wait – I’ll go! Listen, Slayer, I can move faster than you. Keep on this track until you see the lights of the chateau in the distance. Then wait for me. I won’t be long.”

He was yards away when Buffy called out “Take care!” and the mocking reply came back from the dark, “Tut, tut. Wash your mouth out with soap. Anyone would think you were in love with me, Slayer.”

Fifteen minutes later, Buffy was standing, staring in horror at what was happening around the chateau. She had heard more sustained gunfire as she ran up the final slope towards the top of the hill where the track veered to the left before descending in a series of loops towards the valley floor.

Every window of the chateau was now ablaze with light and it wasn’t difficult to see that a huge force had been lying in wait for Joy and the Resistance. As Spike had feared, they had walked straight into a trap and as Buffy watched, she saw Pierre fall and even from where she was standing, she heard Joy’s cry of despair ringing out. Oh god, it was a slaughter, worse than any apocalypse, this was humans against humans. No demons, no vampires, just men wanting to kill men because they’d been ordered to do so.

Suddenly, Buffy couldn’t stand still watching any longer. She wasn’t a watcher, she was the Slayer and another Slayer was in deadly danger. She raced down the track just as Joy, her ammunition obviously spent, crashed out of hiding and launched herself onto the back of the nearest soldier, knife gleaming in her hand.

Before Buffy could act, the blade flashed down twice, the soldier grunted and lay still as blood seeped onto the ground. Joy stood up, wiped the blade on her trousers and gazed at Buffy. Her face was a mask of grief but her eyes were the worst thing – cold, distant, lifeless.

“Pierre’s dead,” she said.

“I know, I saw. Come, quick. We’ve got to go.” Buffy reached out to her, but Joy pulled away almost absentmindedly. Then she saw something over Buffy’s shoulder and for a second the mask fractured.

“Aurora!” she whispered.

Buffy spun round and gasped. Spike was coming down the slope in great strides, the child clutched in his arms. His face was streaked with soot and even in the dark, Buffy could see burn marks on his hands. He skidded to a halt, staring around, swiftly summing up what had happened. “Bloody hell, you’ve got half the German army coming up the road, girls. Here – take your kid, Slayer. Your ma-in-law’s had it. Sorry, but they’ve taken out everyone in the farmhouse. Just managed to get Niblet here before the roof fell in. Come on, Slayers. Move your arses!”

The three of them fled back up the slope, heading away from the sporadic gunfire where the remainder of the Resistance group were selling their lives dearly. The woods swallowed them up and, in single file they made their way through the trees towards where Spike had left the Tiger Moth.

Suddenly Buffy bumped into Joy who had stopped dead in her tracks.

“Come on!” Spike urged impatiently, then turned back to the two girls. “What the bloody hell’s keeping you?”

Joy’s voice was cold and quiet. “I’m going back.”

“You’re sodding well not! What the heck for? Your bloke’s dead, Slayer. I’m sorry but there’s nothing more you can do here. You’ve got your kid. Let’s get you home to England.”

Joy shook her head and a slight smile crossed her face. “I don’t expect you to understand, vampire, but Buffy might. His fight was my fight: his death, my death. I’ve nothing to live for now, but I’ll go on as long as I can for his sake.”

“You’ve got your little girl,” Buffy whispered.

Joy stared down at the child, pushed a lock of sooty hair off her face. “She’s quite calm,” she marvelled. “All this going on and she’s not bothered. How I envy her. She’s her father’s daughter, a little fighter. Here!” She dropped a quick kiss on Aurora’s forehead and thrust the child into Buffy’s arms. “Take her. I trust you. Take her to England, Buffy Summers. Keep her safe.”

And without another word, she turned and vanished into the woods.

From a distance, came the rattle of machine-gun fire. Spike stared after Joy who’d handed her daughter to Buffy then headed in that direction without a backward glance. “She’s gone right off her trolley!”

Buffy had no idea what the words meant but understood from the tone exactly what he was implying. “No, she hasn’t, well maybe – geez, she’s just lost her husband! She’s not thinking straight. All she wants to do is revenge him. If I lost you – I mean, if I lost someone I loved, I’d want to - well, I wouldn’t because that would be murder, but if it was another vamp or – oh!”

She felt the frustration of trying to talk to a Spike who wasn’t her guy boiling up inside her. “Can’t you understand that? How would you feel if you lost – “ she was about to say ‘me’ then stopped and stumbled over another name; she couldn’t remember if she was supposed to know it or not – “your lover?”

Spike swung round, his eyes cold. “Well, that’s exactly what’s going to happen when I get back to England. When I don’t arrive with a poxy Slayer on board the plane, Dru will be dust. If she’s even still alive.”

Buffy bit back the words – ‘She was very much alive a couple of years ago!’ She stared down at the child in her arms. Aurora was wide awake now, red-cheeked, her dark eyes shining, trying to force one bare foot into her mouth, blissfully unaware that her father was dead and her mother had handed her over to a Slayer she’d only known for a few days. “What do we do with the baby? How can we just take her to England? Joy could change her mind at any moment. There must be someone we can leave her with in France.”

Spike shrugged. “I’d dump it under a bush. Someone will find it. French or German, does it matter?”

Buffy glared at him. “Oh yes, and I suppose you risked your unlife in a burning building just to abandon Aurora in the woods?”

Spike licked the burn on his hand and glared back: he was deeply ashamed of his impulsive action at the farmhouse. The screaming, the shooting, the blood and death had been like an aphrodisiac to him; given him a shot of energy that he’d badly needed. So he wasn’t entirely clear in his mind why he’d vaulted over a windowsill into the burning room, snatched the child from its crib and flung himself out into the night again as the roof crashed in with a thunder of flames.

Yes, that was what nagged at him, what he couldn’t understand; one minute he’d been enjoying the scene, savouring the blood, the death, wishing he could join in, deciding that he could probably grab a quick drink from one of the soldiers at the back of the force and then the next -

He shook his head. He wouldn’t think about it now. He was the Big Bad, William the Bloody. His reputation would lie in tatters if anyone found out he’d risked his life to rescue a sodding kid. And the last person who must ever know was his Yankee Slayer. Not that she was his, of course, he reminded himself angrily, that was just a way of keeping her straight in his mind – his Yankee Slayer, his Brit Slayer. Yes. Organisation, he was good at organisation.

“I was using her as bait to get Joy to come with us,” he snapped. “It was a good plan.”

Buffy hoisted Aurora onto her hip. “Yes,” she said dryly, “Great plan. Good result, Spike. Joy ready to fly away with us – oh look - not!” She fought back a smile. Her Spike would have done exactly the same thing; she would trust him with Dawn, had trusted him with her Mom. But this was William the Bloody; unchipped, pure evil, not trying to impress her, not declaring that he could change because he loved her, so why had he rescued the baby? It was such a - a – Williamish thing to do.

She gazed at the vampire who was lighting another foul French cigarette, the familiar silver lighter he’d stolen from the American guy he’d killed, gleaming in the starlight and began to wonder how much of William had survived when the demon entered his body all those years ago. Spike had no soul; that had been her mantra for so long. Now a very quiet voice inside her head murmured “does it matter?”

“I suppose we’ll have to take her with us,” Spike said at last. “Hey, perhaps the Council will be grateful to get a Slayer’s kid, even if they don’t get their Slayer back.”

Buffy sighed. The Council were going to get a Slayer, not just the one they expected. She only hoped she could convince them about her identity. “Hi, I’m Buffy Summers from California and oh yes, I’m from the future”. Not the best of introductions during a War.

She wished Slayers traditionally had some sort of sign on them – a neat tattoo, a little stake in blue just above her ankle, perhaps. That would be cool. She could thrust out her foot and say, “Hey, Slayer here. How do I get home?”

“We’re not going to be talking to them any time soon unless we take the plane back from the Germans.”

“Well, I’m not the one wasting time standing here chatting!” And turning, he strode away down the track.

Buffy cast one final glance towards the chateau, feeling sick because the sound of gunfire was much less now and she had no illusions as to which side had won. She only hoped that Joy would find some way of escaping and would get to England to be reunited with her daughter.

Twenty minutes later she was crouched behind a thick bush, trying to keep Aurora quiet. The Tiger Moth was still parked where Spike had left it, but there were now two guards waiting, hopefully, for the pilot to try and retake his plane.

Buffy’s body tingled as Spike moved silently through the undergrowth and crouched at her side, his arm brushing hers. “I’ll take the one on the right. You deal with the bastard on the left. OK? And keep the bloody kid quiet. She’ll give us away. Can’t you stop that – gurgling?” he hissed angrily.

Aurora was awake and ready to play. Her hand shot out and grabbed at Buffy’s neck.

“She wants my locket.”

“Then give her the damned thing or I swear I will bite her!”

“It was a present. It belonged to - ”

“I don’t care if it belonged to the Queen of sodding Sheba! Just give it to the kid if it’s going to keep her quiet.”

Buffy fumbled at the catch with one hand, then heard Spike curse as Aurora grabbed again with a little shriek as the gold bobbed just out of reach. Buffy flinched as cold fingers suddenly touched the nape of her neck. She shut her eyes, knowing you shouldn’t ever let a vampire come this close, but this was Spike who always guarded her back and just for a few seconds she savoured the feel of his fingers on her skin. She bent her head forward so he could easily reach the clasp, imagining that cold touch sliding down across her shoulders towards her breasts…

Spike shuddered as the warmth of the Slayer’s slender neck burnt his fingertips. The temptation was overwhelming; he wanted to run his hands down under that stupid top she was wearing, feel the roundness of her breasts lie heavy in his palms, caress the nipples with his thumbs and then –

He groaned as she bent her neck forward, almost as if she was welcoming his touch. Which was mad because she was the Slayer, his mortal enemy, not a girl he would dance with to an inevitable conclusion. The longing to kiss the tender flesh was so strong it was almost impossible to fight. In desperation he vamped out, his fangs reaching for the vein that throbbed so tantalizingly under the pale skin. Then he hesitated, his mind whirling in pain. She so obviously trusted him – why else would she leave herself unguarded. It was against nature; a Slayer trusting him. She should be ashamed of herself. God, his life was becoming obscene.

With a growl, he flared back into human face, his fingers found the thin gold chain and with a brutal twist, he broke it and the locket fell into Aurora’s happy grasp.

Buffy gasped at the sudden sting of pain on her neck. Stupidly she’d been waiting for a kiss that should have been there, would have been there if he’d had any real feelings for her. Geez, time travel must have fried her brain. Years of Slayer instinct seemed to have vanished overnight. She didn’t want to imagine what Giles would say if she ever had the chance to explain that she’d bared her neck to William the Bloody, waiting for his kiss!

She felt a familiar bitterness well up inside her and the desire to cry was overwhelming. Men rejected her; men left her. Even William the Bloody didn’t think she was worth biting.

“Sorry – couldn’t get the clasp undone,” Spike muttered. “Now, can we please get this sodding fight underway? I want to see the white cliffs of Dover before the sun comes up.”

Buffy laid the child down gently on the ground beside the track, sheltered by a low bush. Fighting was what she did; at least she knew she was hard to beat when it came to death and destruction. What every girl wanted to know, of course!

“Be quiet, sweetheart.” She turned to Spike. “What will happen to her if we don’t come back?”

“Where’s all your Yankee optimism gone, Slayer? We kill the guards, start the engine, I’ll turn the Moth round and you’ll fetch the kid. And if we both die, then as I said before, a fox will probably get her, if the locals don’t find her first. Now come on!”

Crouching low, Buffy hurried after Spike, wondering how the heck a Slayer with a child would manage. Because the mission – even one as bizarre as this – always came first.

Well, that was one thing she’d never have to worry about. There wouldn’t be any little tests in her life, excited phone calls to friends, discussions about names, plans and decisions made about the future. It would be difficult to get pregnant when the only man you could imagine touching you was a vampire. Especially one who obviously thought you were the most obnoxious thing he’d ever met and much preferred a dark-haired, vicious, psychopathic killer!


	11. Home sweet Home

We Will Remember Them…  
By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

 

Chapter 19 - Home sweet Home

1943 – Somewhere in the county of Hampshire, England.

 

“Sir!”

Sir Philip Travers, the newly appointed head of the Watcher’s Council, looked up from his book. His assistant was standing in the doorway of the Watcher’s Library, looking worried. “Yes, Angus.”

“We’ve had a coded radio message from France, Sir. Apparently the vampire and Slayer are on their way back to England.”

Sir Philip raised an eyebrow. “Good Lord, he’s managed to rescue Joy, has he? I’d like to know how he’s done that. Thought she’d have staked him on sight. When are they due? We need to inform the anti-aircraft batteries on the coast. The last thing we need is for him to be shot down just as he reaches England.”

“Yes, Sir Philip. The message was rather confused. Not sure who sent it. The wireless operator was certain it was from Joy herself, but I told the man he’s a fool because she couldn’t be on board a plane and sending Morse on the ground at the same time! Something about a fight, an attack on a castle of some sort, many dead. Usual Resistance hyperbole, of course, but we reckon it’s genuine.”

The head of the Watcher’s Council closed his book and ran his finger gently over the gold embossed cover. “Hmm, we’d better send a welcoming committee to greet Joy. You go. I’ll see her myself when she gets here. And Angus, don’t tell the vampire about his doxy. He’ll find out sooner than later and we don’t want a fuss where civilians might notice. Oh, one more thing, our brother Watcher, Colonel Monroe – the one who sent the vampire to France in the first place - is he still agitating about this whole affair?”

“Yes, Sir. But to be honest, the general opinion is that he’s close to cracking up. Grammar school boy, you know. Not even a decent prep. Keeps insisting that the fate of the world depends on the Slayer returning to England!”

Sir Philip allowed his mouth to twist slightly in disgust. He hated men who couldn’t control their feelings. “Well, well, we mustn’t judge him too harshly, Angus. We can’t all see the bigger picture. Anyway, he’s got his wish, it seems. Although how he thinks Joy is going to save the world, I have no idea. I’ll have a word with an old school friend of mine; get Monroe transferred somewhere quiet for the rest of the War.”

“Yes, Sir Philip.”

The door closed behind his assistant and the Library sunk back into gloom. “Yes, indeed,” he murmured to himself. “We need to keep this very low key. But at least the wretched girl is out of France and can get back to work, killing vampires in England where she belongs. The French can deal with their own problems. They never thank us for our help, anyway. And as for the vampire – ” He shrugged and opened his book again. He’d made no promise himself, and anyway, events had moved on since William the Bloody had flown to France to save his lover.

 

1943 - A field on the south coast of England.

Somewhere a child was crying – no not crying, whimpering. Buffy could hear it through her dreams – through the pain that was pounding in her head. Why didn’t someone go to the baby? It sounded so upset – God, she had such a headache –

Suddenly memories flooded back and with a whimper of her own, she struggled to open her eyes, terrified at first that she’d gone blind, that she was back in her coffin in Sunnydale and that all of France had been a dream. Then, with a wave of sickening relief, she realised she couldn’t see because she was laying face downwards on the ground with something heavy on top of her.

Now it all came back – watching in frozen horror as Spike killed the soldiers guarding the Tiger Moth, the struggle to start the engine, then - just as they’d almost given up and Spike had begun to talk of using a vampire escape route across Europe to Spain and had she ever seen a bull fight because hey, enormous amounts of free blood - something had worked, the plane had spluttered into life and they were airborne, lifting away from France, the chateau and Slayer Joy.

The baby was crying again, louder this time. Aurora! Oh God, Joy’s daughter. Buffy knew she’d been holding her in her arms, wrapped in Spike’s leather flying jacket to keep her warm as they flew across the Channel. Then, suddenly, the engine started to splutter, she’d heard Spike yell something about no fuel and just as she’d shouted back that she’d heard all the lame excuses about running out of gas before, the little plane had started to falter.

With a violent heave, Buffy pushed down with her arms and curved her back. The heavy object slid to one side with a crash. Groaning, she staggered to her feet. “Spike! Spike!”

She stared around her at the scattered wreckage of the plane. They had landed in a ploughed field and Buffy could recall Spike cursing as he fought to keep the nose of the plane upwards as they skidded along the ground towards a fence.

“Spike, answer me. Where the heck are you? I know you’re not dead!”

She gazed round her, wiping blood from her eyes. Oh god, Aurora, where the hell was she? The crying sounded again and Buffy stumbled through the debris, following the sound.

The noise was coming from the biggest pile of wreckage. Ignoring the pain in her hands as the torn metal jagged into her flesh, Buffy tugged and pulled the remains of what looked like a wing away from the baby. And there she was, still securely wrapped in the leather jacket, her face red, cross and wet with tears, telling the world in no uncertain manner that she was not happy.

“Thank God!” Buffy knelt and gently picked her up.   
She carried her away from the crash, wincing as the myriad cuts and bruises she’d sustained began to make themselves felt. “Where the hell are you, William?” she yelled again, glancing up at the sky. It was still dark, but not dark enough. Dawn was on its way and she could see the clear outline of trees against the sky.

Mid yell, Aurora suddenly stopped crying and in the silence, Buffy heard a faint groan. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck lift and knew, as she always had from the first day they met, that Spike was somewhere nearby. Following her instincts, she turned and headed back towards the wreckage. On the far side of the crumpled plane, she found Spike, hanging upside down from the smashed cockpit, blood dripping through his hair into the ground.

“Spike!” She put Aurora down on the mud and knelt at his side, brushing the blood away from the cut on her forehead as it dripped onto his face, not sure whose blood was whose as the deep scratches on her palms rubbed against the bruised flesh on his face.

“Buffy!” His voice was no more than a whisper, then he gasped as the blood from her head reached his mouth. “Slayer!” The sound was stronger. “Still alive, then?”

“You got us down safely.” She winced as he tried to move and she heard bone grate on bone. “Well, you got us down, anyway. Aurora’s fine. Came through without a scratch.”

“Slayer’s kid,” came the whisper. “Bound to have some sort of luck going for her.”

Buffy was trying to see where his legs were trapped under the wreckage. “Can you move at all?”

“Yes, of course I can: I’m just hanging around upside down for the sake of it. No, I can’t poxy well move! My legs are trapped.”

“Don’t snap at me. I wasn’t the one who ran out of fuel before we got home. It’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to check, isn’t it?” She stared in alarm as his whole body began to shake. Could a vampire go into shock? Then she realised he was laughing! Laughing! He thought this was funny! She was so tempted to kill him, there and then.

“I didn’t plan this, Slayer,” the whisper came again. “I’d have ditched the sodding Moth in the sodding Channel if you and the brat hadn’t been on board.”

Buffy fell silent and continued to tug at the metal holding his legs captive. Why on earth would this Spike try to save her and the baby? Her own Spike, yes, that she could imagine, but surely this one, unchipped and desperate to get home safely, he should have let them both drown.

“Slayer – ”

“Yes – ”

“I’m not imagining it am I? Being upside down and all, but it’s getting lighter, isn’t it?”

Buffy glanced up at the eastern sky and groaned silently. He was quite right; there was a long golden line across the sky where the sun was about to appear. She pulled violently at the twisted, jagged edge that was gripping Spike’s legs across his knees. “We’ve still got time.”

“Slayer, once that sun appears, you’ll be brushing my dust off your face. Look, just take the kid and get out of here. Find the Council and – ”

“Just stop talking and let me – ”

“Are you still bleeding on me?” His voice was sharper now.

“My hands are cut. No biggy. They’ll soon heal.”

Another minute passed and she could feel the strain in her muscles as she fought against the unmoving mass. Spike was silent now, although she thought he was singing something under his breath about blue birds and white cliffs, whatever that meant.

“Buffy – listen to me.” Spike’s voice was urgent now and it was light enough for her to kneel at his side and see his face clearly.

“Take the kid and go. Find the Watcher’s Council and see – well, see if you can persuade them to let Dru go. Tell them I tried to get Joy back. Explain about Aurora. Ask them - ”

“You – can – ask – them – yourself!” she managed as she flung herself back at the metal prison.

“No time, pet. Sun’s almost up. At least I’m dying in England and not in some poxy French prison. And I’ve taken a few Nazi goons with me. Not a bad week’s work for the Big Bad. Better than Liam has done, hiding away in the States.”

Buffy realised her face was wet with tears as well as the blood from her cut forehead. This was crazy. She knew Spike couldn’t die here in a muddy English field. Unless – and the fever in her blood froze as she wondered if this was the way it should have been. Was this why she’d been sent back by Quentin Travers - so that William the Bloody died in 1943 and never came to America? Never killed the Anointed One, never became part of the Sunnydale group, never stole part of her life, her heart – never knew how she felt about him…

“Slayer!”

“Don’t ask me to stop. Just – Spike, I have to tell you something – “

“It’ll have to wait, pet.”

“It can’t. You see – ”

“Sorry, Slayer, but you need some help. And I reckon those guys might just be the ones to give it.”

“What?” Buffy spun round, and slowly raised her hands in the air. A few yards away, four men were standing, looking at them with deep distrust. Three were pointing a mixture of pitchforks and spades at her. But the one in the middle had a large and very dangerous looking shotgun

Somewhere in Southern England, 1943

“Banging on the door isn’t going to do a bloody bit of good, Slayer.”

Buffy spun round and glared at the vampire lying indolently on a pile of hay in the corner of the barn. “What the heck are those guys playing at? Locking us up! And who are they, anyway? They’re not in uniform.”

Spike wriggled around to make himself comfortable. The injuries to his legs were mending but itching as they did so. “They’re from the Home Guard. Ordinary men who have ordinary jobs during the day and then play at soldiers in their spare time. You must have heard of them, even in the States. They are what stand between England and the hordes of the German army – God help us!”

Buffy thumped on the barn door again, but knew in her heart that no one was going to answer her. “Geez, brave, but those pitchforks aren’t going to be a real help against German tanks. And - what the heck are you doing?” Her eyes widened as the vampire had unbuttoned his trousers and was thrusting his hand down inside - “Stop it!”

“Vampire injuries always itch when they mend. Why, what did you think I was doing?” He raised an eyebrow and she turned away, angry with herself as the colour flooded up into her face.

“And where have they taken Aurora?”

Spike sighed and did up his fly buttons again. “That guy’s old woman took her off to change her nappy. And let’s face it, by the pong, it needed doing badly.”

Buffy struggled through the language barrier and worked out that the farmer’s wife had taken Aurora to change her diaper.

“She’ll be fine, Slayer. Stop worrying. Kids are resilient. Hey, perhaps they’ll adopt her – or were you thinking of doing that?”

“She’s Joy’s child – remember? But I still feel responsible for her. Joy entrusted her to me.”

Spike shrugged. He had a nasty feeling that the English Slayer’s time on this earth wasn’t going to be that long. He watched the American girl pace round the barn, checking out every possible way of escape. But the building was made of solid stone and had stood for hundreds of years. It was impregnable.

He wasn’t quite sure why he liked watching her move so much, but he did – she walked as if dancing, balanced, supple, every inch of her body ready for any type of action…. “For god’s sake sit down. You’re making me dizzy.”

“This is all your fault. If you’d just landed the plane, without crashing it, then we’d have been okay.” She flung herself down into the hay, suddenly bone weary. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept for more than a couple of hours: she was dirty, tired, hungry and if she’d had a fortune, she’d have given it all to be able to wash her hair.

“Relax, Slayer. The farmer bloke’s gone to phone some bigwig on the Council. They obviously know who uses the air-field. I expect they get a nice little rent for it.”

“Then what?” Buffy glanced at him, her gaze suddenly sharp. Her own future was worrying enough – would the Council believe who she was? Would they have the power to return her to her own time? And if they didn’t, what the heck would she do, living in 1943?

She flinched as a voice inside her head whispered, ‘live your own life, no Dawn, no Scoobies, no mission, no responsibilities.’ Was that what she really wanted? No, she had to get back to 2001. Or was that forwards? But what if she couldn’t? Would that be so very bad? Spike was in this world and so -

Spike, William the Bloody – yes, this was his world but one in which he was a prisoner, fighting to keep Dru alive. The woman he loved beyond reason. Buffy was only now realising just how much that was. Spike had had every chance to escape when he was in France, but he hadn’t. Dru meant that much to him, which was weird when she remembered that this Spike was unchipped, evil, without a soul or any shred of compassion.

And even if Dru hadn’t survived, there was no reason to believe or hope that Spike would look at her and - She snapped off her thoughts with years of practice. “Do you know the guy in charge of the Council?”

Spike shrugged. “You mean the wanker who got me into this mess in the first place? Not sure if he’s in charge. Poncy git called Monroe. Officer in the Army, member of the Council and bit of a warlock, if my senses didn’t betray me.”

“What will happen to you – you know, with the not bringing Joy back from France?”

Spike rolled over on his side and grinned at her. “Ahh, Slayer, just for a second there, you sounded as if you really cared. Me – oh, I’ll probably finish up as a pile of dust on some prison floor.” He sighed, his eyes suddenly unhappy. “Like to have saved, Dru, but reckon she’s gone already. Council never big on keeping their word – especially a promise to a vamp.”

Impulsively, Buffy reached out to touch his hand. “So why did you do the whole flying to France and – well, you know – everything – if you thought your girlfriend had – well – had gone? Why didn’t you make a break for it?”

“You have some weird expressions, Slayer, but – “ he shrugged, “Always a chance I was wrong. You can’t go through life – or death in my case! – giving up because the odds are stacked against you. Like a bit of a fight, I do. Bit of a scrap. My grandsire – bloke called Liam – he’s always moaning on, wanting to walk away from trouble. Big girl’s blouse! Hey, he’s over in the States right now. When you get home, you could look him up. You’d probably like him – girls usually do. Mr Tall, Dark and Broody, that’s what I call him. Goes by the name of Angel.”

“Angel.” Buffy tried to keep her voice even. “I’ll remember that.”

Spike yawned. “God, I’m tired. Can you stop nattering for a few minutes, Slayer. I need to sleep.”

“Geez! I wasn’t the one - ” Buffy began indignantly, but the vampire just grunted and wriggled himself deeper down into the hay. She watched as the dark lashes flickered down and a little snore sounded in the silence of the barn.

OK, he was without doubt, the most irritating man she had ever and would ever meet, but sleep seemed a good idea. She curled up at his side and her last thought was that she really must let go of the hand that was still clasping hers.

* * * * * *

Miss Valerie Figgs, Witch in Residence to the Watcher’s Council, pushed her toad, Henry, back into her skirt pocket, knocked briskly on Colonel Monroe’s door and marched inside when his soft voice bade her enter.

The Colonel looked up from where he was packing a box with the books he refused to leave behind – and sighed. Valerie was a very large, very cheerful girl – he’d heard her heavy footsteps all the way along the corridor - but somehow her boundless energy exhausted him these days. He was so bloody tired!

“I say, Sir, I’ve just heard that you’re leaving us. Pretty bad show, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

The Colonel’s mouth twitched. “They’re calling it a promotion.” He gazed vacantly around the room. “I’ll miss you all, but Rochester is a nice little city. Lovely cathedral. Not much vampire activity, so I’m told, but I’m sure the Council has a good reason for sending me there.”

Valerie gazed at the man in front of her. Tall, dark haired, with a face that was too thin and too pale. Deep creases snagged their way down his cheeks and she realised the hands packing the books were shaking slightly. She recalled a remark someone had made in the staff canteen only the day before “Hear poor old Monroe’s been put out to grass. Having a bad war.”

She wondered fleetingly who was having a good war? Too many young men could be seen on leave wearing expressions similar to Colonel Monroe’s. Young men whom only a couple of years ago had been at school when death was something you enjoyed during the Saturday morning pictures when the cowboys killed the Indians and saved the heroine from a dreadful fate.

“Did you want something, Valerie? Or was it just to say goodbye?”

“Oh! Yes, rather!” She jolted back to the present day. “This came into the office – ” She plunged her hand into her skirt pocket, pulled out a fat green toad - who promptly leapt for safety - and a black and purple sweet, the size and shape of a large, unwrapped toffee.

“Came into - ?”

“Nice girl in the Postroom found it in the magical input tray. I’ve examined it, of course and it’s fascinating. From the future, would you believe?”

Frowning, Colonel Monroe picked up the candy. “The future? What is it?”

“Well, Sir – “ Valerie was crawling under the desk to rescue Henry, showing a remarkable amount of thick Lisle stockings – “if I’m not mistaken, it’s a very sophisticated recall device. You know, return someone who’s out of their time back to where they came from. And I was wondering – Aha! Got you!” She grabbed Henry and stood up, her face flushed with success – “if it had anything to do with –“ she dropped her voice to a whisper that could have been heard three rooms away – “your extra Slayer problem.”

Colonel Monroe sat down, as if his legs could no longer carry him. Valerie was the only other person who’d known about his plans to bring a Slayer from the future to help rescue Joy. The witch’s help had been invaluable; it had taken all their joint power to send the details of the charm forward into a time when there was a spare Slayer in the world. He’d often wondered who she was and why there were two in existence in the future, but the signs told him that was the case.

He’d been so sure of himself – the portents he’d deciphered had told him clearly that the Slayer, Joy, must be brought back to England from France at this time. Failure would mean that at some time in the future, the world would end.

And then having sent the vampire to rescue Joy, he’d realised that some of the signs implied that a second Slayer, one from the future, had to be called on to help. In fact, if you deciphered the symbols in a certain way it seemed that bringing the future Slayer to 1943 was just as vital in saving the world.

But days had passed and no news had reached England from France. Obviously his plan had gone badly wrong, William the Bloody had failed, Joy was still in France and Sir Philip Travers had made his views quite clear during their last interview.

“You’re obviously not well, old boy. Losing your touch. Need a long rest, somewhere quiet. Pack your things, there’s an opening in our Rochester branch in Kent. Nice cathedral. On the Medway River. Get a bit of sailing, perhaps. Forget about vampires and Slayers and saving the world.”

He’d gone on like that for some time, explaining that Slayers were dispensable items. You didn’t need to save them; that was a waste of time, resources and money because when one died, another appeared. It was an extremely economical system.

Now Colonel Monroe placed the charm on his desk and stared down at it. “So someone in the future knows that we called for a Slayer. That someone – “

“Must be a Witch in Residence – “ Valerie broke in cheerfully. “No one else would know which Postroom to use.”

“ – that someone also knows that the Slayer, for whatever reason, can’t get back to her own time and has made us a returning charm to give her.”

He laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “That would be wonderful if the Slayer had succeeded and returned to England. But she’s probably either dead or shut up in a German prison and God knows what’s happened to Joy, although as another girl hasn’t been called yet, I suppose we can hope that – “

“I say, Sir!” Valerie looked at him wide-eyed. “I thought you knew, or maybe, what with you going to Rochester, perhaps Sir Philip didn’t want to bother you. I mean, I know people say he can be difficult and bad-tempered but I’ve always felt that – “

“Sir Philip didn’t want to bother me with what?”  
Colonel Monroe had had long experience in cutting through to the heart of Valerie’s remarks.

“There was a coded message from France to say the vampire and the Slayer were flying back to England.” She glanced at her watch, ignoring Henry’s cross croaks at being turned upside down. “That was a few hours ago. They must have arrived by now. Lord, yes, but don’t worry, Sir. The old man’s pet assistant, Angus Rae, has been sent to take care of them. ”

* * * * *

 

Angus Rae stepped out of the Rolls and screwed his face up in disgust as his best Church’s leather shoes squelched into something vile. “So where are they?” he said abruptly to the oaf looming next to him.

“Good evening, sir. They’re safe and sound, never you mind. Got them in the barn, sir. Nice and quiet and dark, seeing as I was told to expect a vampire. No Colonel Monroe tonight, then?”

Angus walked gingerly across the farmyard towards the stone barn. “What? No, Monroe’s been – er – promoted. What did you do with the girl?”

The man looked bewildered. “Why, she’s in there with him, Sir. Wouldn’t be parted, they wouldn’t, try as I might and I didn’t want to damage anyone, not without instructions, like.”

Angus quickened his step. Stupid fool had locked their Slayer and a vampire into a barn together! Did the idiot have no brains at all? Well, maybe Joy would have done them all a favour and dispatched the vamp now they were back in England. After all, he’d only been needed to fly the plane and Joy would have realised that.

Silently he pointed at the heavy wooden bar holding the door shut and the farmer lifted it clear. Angus pushed the door open slightly, not bothering about the sunlight that flooded inside. He stared in, heard his breath hiss between his teeth as he reached for the stake he carried in a hand-made leather sheath that hung from his belt.

At the back of the barn, in the gloom, he could just make out two figures sprawled in the hay. One of them was William the Bloody and the other was a complete stranger, definitely not Joy. But – and this he realised, put a whole new twist on things - she was obviously another vampire because, even in sleep, their hands were clasped together.


	12. Promises, Promises

>

We Will Remember Them…  
By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

We will remember them

 

Chapter 12 Promises, promises

 

Buffy was flying – soaring effortlessly through the air, out of time and place – woken from a warm dream to fly…….the air whooshed out of her lungs as she hit the ground, instinctively rolling over, on her feet, hand reaching for the stake in her belt.

Two figures were struggling in the gloom at the back of the barn – Spike held a guy with his arms twisted behind him and was angling his head to bite down on the exposed neck. The man was squealing in fear, his feet kicking up dust from the straw scattered on the barn floor.

She knew from the aching on her arms – his touch burnt her skin at any time – that it had been Spike who’d thrown her across the barn and even as she whirled round, another man fled out of the door, shutting out the daylight that was flooding in.

“Spike! Don’t!” But she was too late. The face she loved changed and fangs bit down to reach the blood he needed so badly. The man screamed, then began to gurgle as his life started to leave his body. Buffy hurtled across the barn and smashed a fist into the side of Spike’s head, pushing him flat on his back, away from his victim who dropped, groaning, to the ground.

Spike shimmered back into human face and stared up at her, anger and confusion vying for dominance in his eyes, blood still running down his chin. “Hey! What’s that for? I just saved your sodding life there, Slayer. He was about to stake you, which would have made a right mess of your miserable Slayer heart.”

Buffy knelt next to the man. Not a vampire, she’d known that immediately she’d seen him. And, thank god, he wasn’t dead, just shaken and petrified. She felt a wave of guilt sweep over her. She’d conveniently forgotten again that this was not her Spike. This man would think drinking a bag of pig’s blood bought from a butcher was the same as chewing on a sewer rat. He was hungry, he fought, he killed, he ate. And that was going to be the last time she forgot that or else other innocent people were going to suffer this fate.

She pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his top pocket and dabbed at the fang marks on the man’s neck. “Hey, I think you’ll be fine. Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you again.”

He struggled to sit up and she lifted him effortlessly to his feet. He stared at her, puzzled and backed away hastily as Spike stood up and glared at him, wiping away the remains of his meal with the back of a very dirty hand. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name’s Angus Rae. Who are you?”

Buffy frowned. “Are you from the Watcher’s Council? I sure hope you are, otherwise the next few minutes are going to be really complicated.”

Angus dabbed at the wound on his neck and threw a look of pure hatred in Spike’s direction. “How do you know about the Watcher’s Council, Miss - ?”

Buffy blinked, then took a deep breath. “I’m a Slayer. My name’s Buffy Summers and I’m from California in America.”

Angus Rae stared at her, his eyes widening. “I thought you were a vampire. You were holding hands with William the Bloody!”

“Told you the bastard was about to stake you, Slayer.”

“Be quiet!” Buffy hissed. “You’ve done enough damage.”

“Oh excuse me for saving your life! Excuse me for cluttering up your nice comfortable little meeting with Mr Watcher here. And anyhow, where’s that bloke Colonel Monroe? And what’s happened to my Dru?”

Angus Rae ignored him. He shuddered; how he hated vampires, they disgusted him. And that – that – thing had touched him! He could still feel the strength of those thin pale fingers on his flesh, the touch of that mouth on his skin! He’d been seconds from death, or something worse. “So Joy is dead? An American Slayer – well, that is unusual. But how did you get involved with the vampire? And who’s your Watcher? I don’t understand.”

Buffy sighed and sat down on a hay bale. “Neither do I. It’s a long story but believe me, Joy isn’t dead. She decided to stay in France and fight the Nazis. But she is married – well, geez, widowed now, I suppose and she has a daughter, Aurora.”

“A daughter!”

“She gave her to me to look after, to bring to England. The people at the farm are caring for her, but she needs someone in authority to take charge of her until Joy gets back.”

Angus waved a hand impatiently. “Yes, yes, we have all sorts of procedures for dealing with children, especially those orphaned by the fighting or bombing. I’ll take care of that. I still don’t understand how there can be two Slayers at any one time. This is something that Sir Philip needs to oversee. I think the best course of action will be for you to accompany me to Watchers’ Headquarters where the whole matter can be sorted out.”

Buffy sighed with relief. She’d been terrified that no one would believe her, but surely once the people in power listened to her story, they would find a way of getting her home.

“And what about me? I can’t travel during the day. And you still haven’t told me what’s happened to Dru? I kept my side of the bargain. I’ve brought you a poxy Slayer back from France. OK, not the one you were expecting, but one’s as good as another in my book. Or as bad!”

With one hand under Buffy’s elbow, Angus Rae edged towards the barn door. “I’ll make arrangements to have you transported to Headquarters,” he muttered. “In the meantime, you remain here, vampire.”

“What? No way am I staying locked up here – Slayer!” He flung himself towards the closing door, but was too late. He crashed against the solid oak as it shut behind them and he heard the heavy bar drop into place on the outside. Vamping out, he roared his anger and kicked violently against the unrelenting wood.

“Spike, calm down.” Buffy pressed her hand against the door, wincing as she heard and felt the raging fury inside. “It’s broad daylight. You can’t come out in this. They’ll send a car for you this evening, I’m sure. Let me sort things out. I promise – ” she hesitated, hating to say the next words, but knowing she had to – “I promise to do the very best I can to find out about your girlfriend when I get to Headquarters. Trust me.”

There was silence from inside the barn and for Buffy that was far worse than any rant William the Bloody could have made towards her. Did he trust her? She doubted it and, for some weird reason, that hurt her so much that she couldn’t even think about it.

‘This is the right thing to do,’ she thought, as she followed Angus Rae to his Rolls Royce and sat in the luxurious leather interior with Aurora on her lap, speeding away from the coast and heading inland. But as she cuddled the warm, chuckling child, doubts began to crowd in from all sides. She’d left Spike behind, abandoned him as a prisoner. But what else could she have done? He was dangerous around ordinary humans. He’d attacked Angus and would have killed him if she hadn’t intervened. OK, he said the Council guy had been going to stake her, but that was so unlikely. He’d just over-reacted in the way Spike used to before – well, not really before, of course, but years later he would and – No! Nothing made sense.

But she’d had no choice but to leave him, no matter that her feelings told her to stay by his side: she had to reach someone in authority, someone who knew that she’d been summoned from the future and knew how to send her back. “Do we have far to go?” she asked at last.

Angus shook his head. “No, quite close by. We’ve moved out of London, of course, to avoid the bombing. The Council offices are scattered across most of the southern counties. I believe there’s even an outpost as far away as Truro, but that’s going a bit too far. I mean Cornwall?” He laughed. “They don’t even know there’s a war on down there.”

“This Sir Philip, he’s your boss?”

“Sir Philip Travers, yes.”

“Travers?” Buffy’s voice squeaked. Geez, was she never to be free from this family?

“Very clever man,” Angus said reverently. “I’ve learnt a great deal from him. Has no time for the namby-pamby dilettantes who’ve been running the Council up till now. Made a clean sweep, put all the old boys out to pasture and moved the ones who are too nervy for their own good, too busy imagining all sorts of dire apocalypses to places where they can’t do any harm.”

“Sounds a real star,” Buffy murmured.

“Indeed he is.”

She stared out at the passing fields and woodlands. Lush grass, cows placidly chewing, big black birds circling round the tops of tall trees. The war, the death and destruction in France, all seemed a long way away, but she knew that every night in the towns and cities of Britain the bombs rained down, shattering buildings, destroying lives. It was tempting to ask Angus if there was a Mr Giles working for the Council at the moment, but the thought of meeting Rupert’s father was just too bizarre.

Suddenly the big car slowed, turned through a wide entrance between two tall stone pillars and continued slowly up a gravel drive full of weeds that wound its way between overgrown shrubbery.

“Ah, home at last,” Angus said cheerfully. “I expect you could do with a nice cup of tea.” He laughed. “We can’t run to coffee at the moment, I’m afraid.”

“All I need is a hot shower,” Buffy said wearily, clambering out of the car and gazing up at the stone portico of the vast mansion that lay before her. She hefted Aurora onto her hip, aware that even in a few days, the child felt heavier, her dark hair thicker and longer. For a few seconds Buffy wondered if Joy was still alive, but surely she must be because Angus would have known if another Slayer had been called.

She dropped a kiss on the baby’s head as a brisk woman in uniform plucked her from Buffy’s arms and carried her away.

“Her name’s Aurora,” Buffy called after them. “She’s half French. Her mother is the Slayer.” But the woman didn’t look round and Buffy’s last glimpse of the little girl was two dark eyes gazing back at her over a starched khaki shoulder.

Angus ushered her up the steps into the house, through the echoing depths of the central hall whose black and white checked floor tiles were cracked and broken, the pale squares on the dingy walls reminders of paintings and tapestries long buried in some far away vault out of harm’s way. He escorted her into a small room off the central hall “If you would kindly wait here, Miss Summers, I’ll see if Sir Philip is busy. I know he’ll be anxious to talk to you.”

Buffy spun round. “Hey, talking’s good, but I need to know what you’re planning on doing about Spike. Can you collect him tonight? He can’t stay in that barn much longer.”

The Englishman pulled a face and touched the bite marks on his neck, trying to hide the shudder that coursed through his body. “Yes, yes, well, we’ll have to see what Sir Philip says, won’t we?”

Buffy frowned. “Hey, this isn’t negotiable. I promised him. He saved my life in France. He saved your Slayer’s life. You owe him – ”

Angus raised a hand to stop her. “My dear Miss Summers, you may have your own quaint American ways of dealing with vampires, but I can assure you that over here, we only have one way. And that is to dust them as quickly as possible.”

“But – ”

“Oh, I appreciate that he was useful. Obviously we needed someone to fly the plane out to France and hopefully rescue Joy. But let’s face it, he failed to do so and even managed to crash the plane on your return – a very valuable asset to the Council that is now ruined beyond repair, I might add. In my opinion, William the Bloody is owed nothing by us and I’m sure Sir Philip will agree with me.”

Buffy stared at the smooth, implacable face in front of her. “But I promised,” she repeated slowly.

Angus laughed as he opened the door. “Come, come, Miss Summers. A promise to a vampire is no promise at all! The vampire will die and there really isn’t any need to discuss it further, is there? Now, a nice cup of tea?”

Buffy woke with a start, realising she’d been asleep, lying across a small table, her head pillowed on her arms. She stared blearily around the little room at the Watchers’ Council Headquarters where she’d been asked to wait. How long had she been unconscious, dreaming of Sunnydale and Spike? She glanced at the window – it didn’t look that bright outside, probably late afternoon. Oh God, was Spike was still a prisoner at the airfield? Was Aurora OK? What the hell was going on?

She realised it had been voices outside her door that had woken her. She struggled to open it – the lock seemed stuck – then it suddenly flew open and she found two young men standing there, smiling at her.

The one sporting a large moustache said brightly, “I say, sorry to disturb you, but I’m looking for Angus? The chap you arrived with? Angus Rae? Have you seen him?”

Buffy blinked. “No, yes, he was going to speak to – Sir Philip, is it?”

The young man pulled a face. “Oh Lord, I’d better not disturb them but I really need to get a replacement for the staking tonight. There’s a darts match down the pub and I can’t afford to miss it otherwise I’ll lose my place on the team.”

“A staking?”

“Yes, some vamp we’ve got shut up downstairs. Bloody nuisance. I know I’m on stake call but there must be someone who can swop duties with me. I was told you were in on the fun as well.”

Buffy felt the exhaustion draining away from her body. “We’re going to stake the vamp?” she said, trying to keep the revulsion from her voice.

“Well, you are and whoever I can get to take my place. Rotten luck – I don’t often get a chance to do a real staking but can’t afford to let the chaps down at the pub. We’re in the semi-finals! See you later. Get the lads to drop you off at the Oak and Thistle if you’ve finished by ten. I’ll buy you a pint. There’s sure to be some Yanks around from one of the bases. You’ll feel right at home. Well, must be off. Holcraft, old chap, a word if I may…”

Buffy turned back into the room, the door closing behind her. The musty air tasted sour in her mouth. So that was what the Council had planned. They’d gone back to the barn while she slept, captured Spike and he was to be dusted in some sort of evening’s entertainment. Obviously they thought she would be delighted to be involved, and to be fair, why wouldn’t they? Slayer – vampire – you didn’t need to be a genius to work out the equation.

She glanced out of the window and winced. The sun was going down; she must have slept for hours! But why the heck hadn’t someone woken her? Surely the head of the Council should want to speak to her, discover what had happened to Joy and why they had another Slayer in their country while the first one was still alive? But apparently they had just left her to sleep. Even the “nice cup of tea” that Angus Rae had promised her hadn’t appeared and as for the hot shower! Forget it!

Buffy tried not to work out exactly how many days she’d been wearing the same clothes or the last time she’d washed her hair. There was something weird about this whole situation and, rightly or wrongly, she wasn’t going to sit back and let them kill Spike.

She gave the door a hard shove, the latch snapped back and wincing, she heard wood splinter. Sometimes Slayer strength could be so bad! She’d offer to pay for the damage except – she grinned, she had a very crushed five dollar bill in one of her pockets and that was all.

There was no one around, the two men had vanished – but somewhere in the depths of the house she could hear someone laughing and there was a strong smell of frying onions. For a second she was back at the DoubleMeat, dishing out burgers, the grease clinging to her hair and skin. It was weird to realise that in the future, that life was still there, boring, monotonous, dreary. Only Spike made it bearable. She looked at the thought for the first time without shying away, handled it, polished it and refused to put it away in the Spike drawer in her brain that she usually kept shut and locked.

Suddenly she frowned. On the floor next to the door were five or six cigarette ends! She could have sworn that they weren’t there when she first went into the room. So someone had been standing outside her door for a couple of hours, or more. All the time she had been asleep – almost as if – she shook herself. Now she was beginning to imagine things, but the words still came unbidden into her mind, almost as if she’d been a prisoner and he had been her guard.

“Why the heck would they guard me? I’m on their side.” She remembered how odd the lock had felt when she first tried to open it. Had Moustache Guy opened it from the outside when she rattled the handle? And perhaps the latch hadn’t been stuck just now, but locked.

‘OK, I can understand them keeping Spike in prison, but what the heck have I done to upset them. Stupid Council. That guy said they were holding the vampire downstairs,” she muttered, gazing up the stairs that rose in a great swirl out of the hall and vanished up into the gloom of the gallery above. “I reckon there must be cellars in a house this old.”

A narrow passageway led from the back of the hall towards the rear of the house and there in the wall was a narrow door. The wooden panel at the bottom was marked and dented, as if heavy boots had kicked it many times – probably by guys trying to hold a struggling prisoner while they opened the door, Buffy thought grimly.

She turned the handle, feeling relief sweep over here when the door creaked open. She knew she would have kicked it in without any hesitation if it had been locked, but that would have made too much noise and she was hoping she could avoid confrontation with the Council’s guards.

A narrow flight of stone steps led down into complete darkness. Buffy fumbled along the wall and found a light switch, but the single bulb that flickered into being hardly did more than throw a little relief into the shadows.

She skimmed down steps that were shiny from centuries of wear. Another dim bulb at the bottom shed a little light on a long corridor, stretching away into the distance. Buffy groaned – there were doors all the way along, obviously leading into different parts of the cellar. Which one held Spike?

She reached out to touch the nearest door and a frizzon of feeling ran through her palm and fizzed through her body. Vampire! And not just any vampire. Spike was behind that door. Her Slayer senses told her that, but so did her heart.

Suddenly there was a noise from above her head and the beam from a strong flashlight bounced around the walls before settling firmly on her face. “Ah, our American Slayer! It’s a Miss Summers, isn’t it? I’m so sorry I haven’t had the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I have been so very busy. There is a war going on, you know.”

Three men walked down the steps – the tall man who’d been speaking bore an uncanny resemblance to Quentin Travers except he was much slimmer. Behind him came Angus Rae and a tall, dark-haired man who looked pale and ill.

Buffy fought back the urge to punch Sir Philip on his aristocratic nose. She was the last person who needed telling there was a war going on; she’d been in the thick of it for the past few days.

“We must have a nice long chat very soon, my dear. I can’t quite understand how you can possibly be a Slayer when our dear Joy is still alive. You see, it really doesn’t happen like that.”

“I am the Slayer – you know, one in each generation, super strong, good with pointy stakes. If you’ll just let me explain – ”

Sir Philip held up a hand. “Yes, later, later, I’m sure it’ll all be fascinating. You Americans are always so eager to leap into everything straight away. Just a little tiring. Now over here, we like to do things in order. And our first priority is to rid the world of that thing in there – William the Bloody. And, of course, my dear young lady, if you are, as you say, a Slayer, then you will have no problem with the, er, dispatch process, so to speak. And if you can’t – well, you see, some of my colleagues are under the impression that you are a German spy and, as you can imagine, we have ways of dealing with those that will not be pleasant. Indeed no.”

Buffy stared at him. “A German spy? I’m American!”

Sir Philip shrugged and brushed a piece of dust from his elegant suit lapel. “The two things are certainly not incompatible, my dear. But time will tell. We will watch your prowess in staking the vampire and that will tell us a great deal.”

Angus unlocked the door and Sir Philip gestured for Buffy to go inside. The cell was dark and damp oozed from the stone walls and ran in great green streaks down to a filthy earth floor. A click and a weak light beamed down and Buffy felt nausea rise in her throat and her stomach churned.

Spike was hanging in chains from the far wall. His brown hair was matted with fresh blood, the jersey he’d been wearing was torn open to show great dark buises and cuts all over his chest. Buffy felt her hands curl into fists. He looked far worse than when he’d had that run-in with Glory and he’d been pretty badly beaten up then. But at least you expected that from a mortal enemy. These guys were the Council – he was working for them. OK, they didn’t have to like him, but this - !

“Not a particularly pretty specimen,” Sir Philip’s voice was bleak with distaste. “It’s hard to believe that this is William the Bloody. We have all sorts of danger flags next to his name in our records, but really, he is just a common or garden type of vampire after all.”

On the far side of the cell, Spike raised his head, blood dripping from his chin. Eyes that were half shut with swelling flesh fought to open and Buffy felt her heart skip as he looked straight at her.

“Oh it’s the Slayer. Come to finish me off, pet?” He licked his lips, his voice no more than a whisper. “Well, they’ve made it nice and easy for you.”

“Spike – I – I’m – sorry – ”

“Oh please! What are you sorry about? Part of the game. I’ve lost, you’ve won. Just get on with it. I reckon they’ve already dusted Dru, so I might as well go too.”

“We might be best advised to keep him alive and question him some more,” the dark-haired man said quietly.

“Oh, I think that would be a waste of time and resources. And you really should be on your way to Rochester, old chap. No, the vampire has a good grasp of the situation,” Sir Philip said dryly. “Angus, perhaps you could provide Miss Summers with one of our stakes?”

“I have my own,” Buffy replied automatically and pulled it from her waistband. She didn’t notice the dark-haired man’s expression change and his hands ball into fists as he took a small step forward. She walked up to Spike, noticing as if from far away that her hands were steady, without even the faintest tremble.

She stood in front of Spike and he struggled to raise his head again. For a second he vamped out, then the gold faded away and he grinned. “Go on, Slayer. Don’t hang about. Hell’s waiting for me and I don’t want to annoy anyone in power down there! Oh and the last few days – fun, sweetheart. No complaints at all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You know damn well I’m not going to stake you!” Buffy snapped then whirled round to face the men. “There are three of you, OK, but I’m the Slayer and I can take you all out. Now, I want you to unchain him.”

To Sir Philip’s credit, his expression hardly changed. “As I thought – a German spy. Well, well, that is interesting. And how do you think you are going to escape, Miss Summers, even if we do release the vampire? You won’t even get out of the house.”

“We’ll take our chances. And I am the Slayer!”

“And if I refuse to release him? I only have to raise my voice and guards will appear. If you are the Slayer, you can’t hurt any of us, can you? We’re not vampires or demons.” He rubbed his chin. “How interesting. Angus - Monroe – ”

“I’ll be delighted to stake him,” Angus snapped. “Get out of the way, Miss Summers. I have no compunction about hurting a girl, Slayer or no Slayer.”

“I can’t let you do that!” The dark-haired man stepped forward and to Buffy’s astonishment he had a small gun in his hand. “Unchain the vampire, Angus.”

“Monroe!”

“Sorry, Sir Philip, but I think this is important.”

“You wouldn’t dare shoot us.”

Monroe shrugged, his face weary and pale in the light from the flickering lamp overhead. “My career in the Council is finished, I know that. And I think I have caused more trouble than I imagined possible. I don’t understand…it shouldn’t be like this…”

“You’re rambling, man.”

“Unchain the vampire.”

Angus looked questioningly at Sir Philip who nodded and Buffy slid her arms round Spike’s body as it fell from the wall.

“Can you walk, vampire?”

“Well, I don’t reckon Miss America can carry me.”

“Yes, I could,” Buffy said calmly, supporting him as they staggered across the cell. “And I will if necessary.”

“Oh, I love it when you’re bossy!”

“Shut up, Spike. We’ve got to get out of here – fast.”

She watched as Monroe slammed the cell door shut on Sir Philip and his henchman and shot a large bolt across. He turned to them and she could see beads of sweat on his forehead: the man was obviously ill.

“Right – we need to move.”

“Where are we going?”

Colonel Monroe shut his eyes briefly, then headed up the stone steps as a muffled shouting and banging could be heard from the cell behind them. “To find the one person who can help you, Miss Summers. If she will.”


	13. Enough for Two

We Will Remember Them…  
By Lilachigh

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

 

Chapter 13 Enough for Two?

 

Buffy moaned – then moaned again – hot water! Wonderful hot water on her body, soaking her hair, washing away days of grime and sweat and – well, never mind what else it was washing away. After all, as Sir Philip Travers had said to her recently, “there is a War on!” and people often did things during times of great stress that they shouldn’t do. Making love with Spike in France whilst hiding in the farm cart had been stupid, okay, she knew that, but that was behind her now. He was William the Bloody and she would not forget it again.

The sliver of a soap that smelt of disinfectant was growing even more transparent by the time she reluctantly stepped out of the bath and scrubbed herself dry with a thin towel that smelt of sunshine and a windy day. She found herself deciding that when she got home, she would always hang their clothes outside in the fresh air, not rely on the dryer in the basement –

She combed her wet hair with her fingers and tried to think. Would she ever get home? After he’d rescued them, she’d followed Colonel Monroe out of the Council’s mansion house, half carrying the badly beaten vampire, waiting all the time for sounds of pursuit. Monroe had pushed them into the back of a car and driven away into the dark of the English countryside, down lanes so narrow the bushes and trees brushed the sides of the vehicle as it passed.

“Can you keep him under control?” Monroe had said as they’d been tossed from side to side – the car jolting over deep ruts, branches scratching the windscreen. Buffy could see his face reflected in the window – he looked ill, pale and drawn, as if every ounce of his energy was being used to keep himself going.

“He’s OK. He won’t hurt me or you – at the moment.”

“It’s the next moment I’m more worried about,” Monroe muttered. “And the one after that. I’m still trying to tell myself I’ve got a live vampire in my car and he isn’t bound and gagged!”

Buffy heard Spike wince and curse as the jolting threw him against the side of the car. “He’s beginning to moan – he must be feeling better. I’ll gag him for you if he gets too loud.”

The Colonel laughed. “You sound as if you know him very well, Miss Summers. You’ve become very familiar with the vampire during your short time in France.”

Buffy muttered a vague reply, glad he couldn’t see the colour flood up into her cheeks. What would he say if she told him that she knew Spike better than anyone? That every inch of the body pressed against hers now was as familiar to her as her own? And not from the few days they’d been together fighting the Nazis – no, from a time he would never know – well, not unless he lived to be very, very old…

Finally they’d broken out of the woods and driven down a road into a village, stopping outside a small, stone house. Buffy had been so thankful to get indoors that she had hardly noticed who opened the door to them. A woman, who didn’t seem at all surprised to see them, had ushered her upstairs, and showed her to the bathroom. “Wash first, then we’ll talk, Miss Slayer,” she’d said briskly.

“Spike ? “

“You mean William the Bloody? You call him Spike? What an odd name. Is that what he calls himself? I must add it to our records. Don’t worry - we’ll take care of the vampire. Throw your clothes out onto the landing and I’ll find you something clean to wear. Nothing will fit –“ she laughed, sounding as if vampires and grubby Slayers appeared on her doorstep every day – “but I don’t expect that will bother you!”

Now Buffy opened the bathroom door and peered round it, clutching the wet towel. She found a small pile of clothes on the floor and once she’d shooed away a very large toad that was sitting on top of them, she could get dressed. The shirt and some much washed type of overalls were far too large but there was a belt and with that cinched to its tightest and the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, she was at least decent.

There was no sign of her jeans or shoes and barefoot she padded along the narrow passageway. Suddenly she stopped: vampire – Spike! She sensed him with every fibre of her body. Pushing open a door, she found a small room and Spike, tied to a chair, staring at the doorway, the blood still marking his face, the bruises purple on his pale skin.

“Took you long enough to get clean, Slayer. Blimey, what is it with you Yanks and hot water? And you stink of carbolic soap. Even a Fljeeisj demon could smell you yards away and they don’t even have a nose!”

Buffy found herself smiling, almost against her will. She’d been more worried about the extent of Spike’s injuries than she’d liked to admit, but the snarling sarcasm meant, to her ears, that he was on the mend. “Geez, Spike, why do you always moan when you’re healing, never when you’re actually injured?”

Sharp blue eyes gleamed beneath the dark brows and brown hair she was now used to - “You know that’s not the first time you’ve sounded as if we’ve met before, Slayer. Just what the hell’s going on? I know I would have remembered you – Slayer and all that, right? So it’s some sort of mojo, isn’t it? To make me forget things. Have you been doing spells like our nancy boy Colonel?”

“I’m the Slayer, not a witch!”

Spike struggled against the ropes that tied him to the chair, then gave up, vamping out and back again. The beating from the Council had been bad but not that bad. Bloody hell, he’d had far worse from Liam in the past and learnt to bear it without a murmur because wincing just added to his grand-sire’s pleasure. No, he was groaning because he had the feeling he’d been made a fool of by this slip of a girl. He’d – well, not trusted her because Big Bad would never believe a word a Slayer said to him – but he had to admit he’d sort of come to respect her in France. When she’d left him in that barn, left him to be captured and beaten by the Council, he’d felt – betrayed? Yes, he was man enough to admit it – he’d felt sodding well betrayed!

And here she was now, standing there in a pair of dungarees several sizes too large for her, with bare feet, wet hair pulled back in a silly knot, smelling of carbolic soap and part of him was still determined to forgive her. So it had to be magic.

“You haven’t answered my question. Why do I feel we’ve met before?”

“We’d like to hear your answer, too, Miss Summers.”

Buffy spun round to see Colonel Monroe and the woman who’d spoken to her when she arrived standing in the doorway. She blinked as she realised the large toad was now sitting on the woman’s shoulder, blinking emerald eyes in her direction and croaking gently.

“My name’s Monroe, as I think you both know. The vampire and I met a few weeks ago.”

Spike snarled up at him. “You promised if I went to France and rescued your Slayer, then Dru would live. Well, I got you a Slayer, even if it wasn’t the one you wanted. But you couldn’t keep your promise, could you? Wanker!”

Colonel Monroe sighed. “The female vampire, the one you call Dru is, as far as I know, unharmed.”

Spike blinked and a warm smile slowly spread across his face. Buffy bit her lip, astonished at the flood of jealousy that raged through her at the sight of that expression.

“Not dead? Then – oh, don’t tell me – she escaped, right? Ha! I’ve always said the prison hasn’t been built yet that could hold my Dark Princess. Good for Dru! And I bet she didn’t go without – “

“She killed three men.”

“That’s my girl!” Spike beamed round the room and then fell silent as he realised his glee wasn’t being reciprocated. “Well, I mean, I’m sorry and all that – No, I’m sodding not! Dru’s a vampire. It’s what we do. No wonder the Council decided to get rid of me; with her gone, they had no way of making me jump through their little hoops.” He frowned: “But why did you save me? And what gives with toady over there?”

“I rescued you because I thought it unlikely Miss Summers would leave without you. And the toad, whose name is Henry, belongs to Miss Valerie Figgs, here, who is Witch in Residence to the Watchers’ Council. This is her sister’s house we’re in. Luckily, the lady in question is away.”

“I knew there was mojo involved. Just bloody well knew it.”

Valerie walked up to Buffy and stared into her face. “You’re a long way from home, my dear. A very long way, but we’re not sure just how far.”

Buffy glanced at Spike who had fallen silent and was obviously listening to every word. She walked out of the room and beckoned the others to follow her. Out in the passageway, she turned and said, “You two, you’re the ones who sent for me?”

Colonel Monroe nodded wearily. “All the signs told me that a Slayer from another time and place had to come to France because if she didn’t, the world would end. It was clear that there were two Slayers at one particular time, so one could be spared. It seems obvious that you were meant to rescue Joy, our Slayer who obviously has some great task ahead of her, but you haven’t and so – well, I’m afraid it looks as if the world will have to look after itself. Mind you, if the War goes badly for us all, then that will happen anyway.”

 

“Geez, you don’t have to worry – “

“No – say nothing about the future! Nothing at all. I’m deeply sorry that we have caused you all this trouble for nothing. Miss Figgs has a charm – sent back to us by – well, future colleagues in the Council, be they British or German, who knows – that will send you home. I’m not quite sure why you weren’t given a return potion by whoever read my initial instructions to send you to France, but at least they made amends finally.”

Buffy shuddered: she remembered the dreadful feeling of betrayal when the liquid Quentin Travers had given her failed to work. She wondered who had realised she was trapped in 1943, who had cared enough to try and rescue her and bring her home. She felt a wave of something very like disappointment sweep over her. Which, hey, ridiculous much, She had to go home, wanted to go home, of course she did.

“OK, that’s great. They’ll all be worried sick, especially my sister, Dawn; I’ve been away longer than – “

“Oh no, that’s not how it works,” Valerie said cheerfully, looking back through the doorway to where Henry had jumped onto Spike’s knee and was staring at him with an interested expression on his face. “Only two days will ever pass in your home while you’re away. That’s part of the charm. And quite a clever one, even if I say so who shouldn’t, seeing as I helped in its construction.”

“So I could stay?”

The Colonel smiled wearily. “Well, of course, physically you could, but there’s all the problem of you saying something to someone about – well, you understand the difficulties.”

Buffy nodded. Of course she had to go home. “And will I remember everything – France, Joy, Aurora – ” She threw a quick glance over her shoulder – “Spike?”

Valerie shook her head. “No, the charm wipes away everything, as if it never happened. And, of course, nothing has. You failed to rescue the Slayer and so the future will continue unchecked.”

“And what happens to Spike now?” Buffy asked, walking back into the room.

“Oh, remembered about me, have you, sweetheart? That’s the last time I save your miserable Slayer life, for all the gratitude it gets me.”

“The vampire will be released, unharmed, as long as he promises to leave England as soon as possible.”

“Can’t wait. Poxy place. I’m heading for Europe. Easy pickings out there at the moment. Blood by the gallon. Bet that’s where Dru’s gone.”

Colonel Monroe stared at him in disgust. “I thought you had some love for your country left inside you?”

“What me? Bloody hell, no. What’s England ever done for me?” Spike shrugged, wishing desperately for a cigarette and knowing from the gleam in the Slayer’s eyes that she didn’t believe a word he was saying.

“Right, then, I suggest we have a meal and then we can get to work,” Valerie said, clapping her hands together. “I’ll cook breakfast – I think the hens laid a couple of eggs yesterday - and check on the rules governing the returning charm. There might have to be some little ritual. There usually is.”

Buffy nodded as Valerie left the room, then frowned as a thought hit her. “Um… Colonel, you say I’ll forget everything when I take the charm, but how will you make Spike forget what’s happened?”

“I’m not taking some bloody charm. Why do I have to forget anything? I hate magic. There’s always consequences with magic.”

Colonel Monroe looked at the slim girl in front of him. She looked almost childlike in the oversized dungarees, her feet bare. He’d seen the way her gaze rested on the vampire, almost as if – as if she was fond of him. Which was ridiculous, of course, but he supposed there might be some little attachment, even between a Slayer and a vampire when they’d gone through a war zone together.

“Well, I don’t want to upset anyone, but vampires don’t have a long existence on earth, Miss Summers, as you know very well. I truthfully believe that William the Bloody will not be with us by this time next year so his memories will make no difference.”

Buffy bit her lip and walked across to the window to look out at the dark night sky. It was windy and ragged clouds were scuttling across the moon. She knew it was the same moon she saw from the yard in Sunnydale, but she still felt a long way from home. Colonel Monroe joined her as, remembering how keen Spike’s hearing was, she whispered,

“I hate to ruin your plan, but Spike is still with us in 2001. The charm must work on me because I had no memory of him when we first met. Geez – I just wanted to stake the idiot.” But of course, she hadn’t, and that was the million-dollar question. Why not?

She was back outside the Bronze, the leather-coated guy clapping his hands as she fought and dispatched a vampire. Then at the school – she’d had plenty of chances to kill him, but hadn’t. All through these years she hadn’t staked him; let him live. Had she known, somewhere deep inside her that they had met before? Had the bond that existed between them been there even then? Had he sensed the same thing?

She shook her head and cast a quick look across the room to where Spike was watching her, his eyes puzzled and wary. “I’m quite certain he had no memories of me at all when we first met. So is there enough charm for the two of us? And it isn’t just a memory wipe thingy, is it? I’ll go forward in time, but where will it send Spike if he takes it?”

There was a noise at the door and Valerie Figgs came in, her normally cheerful face grave. “I heard what you said. And we have a problem. Well, two, actually.”

Colonel Monroe groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. “And they are?’

Valerie held out a large purple and black striped lozenge. “I can cut this in two, no problem. I think it is strong enough to wipe both their memories and Miss Summers should be returned home. The vampire was here to start with, so I think he will remain here.”

“So where’s the problem?” Buffy realised she was standing behind Spike’s chair, her hand resting casually on his shoulder. Colonel Monroe was looking at her, astonished, and she whipped it away as if it had been burnt.

Valerie looked abashed. “Well, firstly – and hopefully this part won’t be too difficult to arrange – you will have to go back to France, because the charm to recall you has to be taken in the place where you arrived, so to speak. But secondly – ”

“Yes?”

“How can I put this – according to my sources, it will only work on two people if they have a – er – a connection, a physical connection,” she finished, almost under her breath.

“You mean I have to hold his hand? I can manage that.”

Spike, who still didn’t understand what the hell was going on, could read the woman’s face far better than the American girl. “No, she means a real physical connection, Slayer. For some weird reason, the witch wants us to have sex!”

Buffy stood at the window of the little cottage and looked out over an English village where dawn was rising, the gentle sun bathing everything in a calm, dove grey light. The view reminded her of a picture she’d seen once in a book of nursery rhymes Dawn had loved – although she knew she hadn’t really, of course, because her sister had never actually been there as a child – but memory could obviously be manipulated in many ways -

– a duck pond, thatched cottages, a church buried amongst great trees, the square tower just visible through the leaves. She wondered what that graveyard was like. Was it infested with vampires at times? Perhaps she should write a book “Graveyards I Have Known,” by A. Slayer. She was sure it would be popular with future Slayers.

It was difficult to realise that only a few miles away, towns and cities were being bombed, that people were dying. Even harder to remember that across the Channel, in Europe, dreadful, atrocious things were being done – not by vampires or demons, but by humans to other humans.

The calm of the outside was in stark contrast to the stormy atmosphere inside the cottage bedroom. Colonel Monroe and Valerie Figgs had been arguing for the past fifteen minutes about the morality of a Slayer having sex with a vampire for her own benefit. Because according to Valerie, the Witch in Residence to the Watcher’s Council, it was the only way to make the charm work if it was to return Buffy to her own time and wipe her memories and those Spike had of all they’d done together in France.

Neither the Colonel nor Valerie had ever contemplated a situation where William the Bloody would still be on the earth nearly sixty years in the future. They had never believed he would live more than a few months more and had been certain that what he knew now would vanish into the dust he became.

“I appreciate that it’s an extremely difficult situation,” the Colonel had said forcefully, pacing up and down, “but he’s a vampire. It doesn’t matter if he’s been helping us or not. If he was, it was under duress, not of his own volition. And he failed: he came back without our Slayer, without Joy and with the added inconvenience of her child.” He stopped pacing and muttered under his breath, “And I was so certain that Joy had to be rescued from France. Why should the signs be so definite about that if it wasn’t true? I don’t understand.”

He ran his hands through his dark hair; the strain showing in every inch of his body and returned to the problem in hand. “I’ve rescued him from the Council - I’ll lose my job over this! I’ve even promised to let him go and I’m prepared to keep my word, but that’s as far as I will go. For a Slayer to have a relationship with a vampire – no! I’m sorry, that breaks all precedent. I know I do not see eye to eye with the Council on many things, but this – it’s – it’s just unacceptable. I can’t sanction it under any circumstances.”

“But Miss Summers will be unable to return to her own world if this doesn’t happen,” Valerie said. “I can find no way of sending her there, except to use the charm. But her memory must be wiped and so must the vampire’s. Surely – I mean, I can’t imagine anything worse – but after all, she just has to, well, lie there while he – well, does it. She doesn’t have to – take part,” she finished in a loud whisper.

“Sitting right here,” Spike broke in, sounding bored, but his eyes were gleaming through the dried blood his face. He shifted on his chair, trying to ease his arms that were tied behind him. “Look, I’m all for getting my leg over whenever possible, but shagging a Slayer! You couldn’t pay me to do that. So, unless she wants to take me by force…forget it. And what’s so difficult about getting to the USA, anyway. Why can’t she just get on a sodding ship like the rest of us have to do? With any luck a U-boat will take care of her once and for all and we can forget about everything that’s happened.”

He glared at them, firmly putting out of his mind a night not so long ago, the dark heat of the French farm-cart, the smell of vegetables under the heavy tarpaulin cover, and what he and the Slayer had done. Or had they? Perhaps he’d dreamt it all. She’d been putting a mojo on him from the moment they met.

The Colonel and Valerie Figgs ignored him; only Henry, the toad, peered out of the witch’s pocket and stared impassively.   
Spike glared back then glanced at the Slayer’s back. What the bloody hell was so interesting out of the window? Any second now the sun would be up and he was more concerned with the fact that there were no curtains to shut it out.

“So, there’s an end to the matter,” the Colonel said at last, sounding exhausted. “Miss Summers – we’ve come to a decision. I know it will be difficult for you, being separated from your family – I take it you do have a family – oh yes, you mentioned a sister, I believe – but as a Slayer, you must have always expected the worst to happen. Living in England won’t be nearly as bad as that. Of course, there will have to be a few rules and regulations regarding you mentioning, well, anything, really. But you know all that. And perhaps when the War is over – ? In the meantime, Valerie will do her best to come up with some other charm to return you to your own world as soon as possible. Miss Summers – Miss Summers?”

Buffy sighed, squared her shoulders and turned round to face him. “You just don’t get it, do you? You seem like a nice enough guy, Colonel, and you’ve saved our lives, but here you are, just like all the members of the Council I’ve met before, trying to tell me what to do. But you can’t. You couldn’t in my world and you can’t here. I’m the Slayer: I don’t need your permission to do anything; Joy doesn’t need your permission, either. I know that’s hard for you to understand, but get over it.”

The Colonel looked stunned and Valerie gave a little squeak and sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. Henry gulped.

“That’s telling them, Slayer! Poncy gits, all of ’em.”

“Shut up, Spike. You’re the problem, don’t forget.”

“What, just because you don’t want to shag me? Your loss, pet. Or are you scared once you’ve done a vampire, you’ll never want to do anyone else? Poor little Slayer. I’d be ever so gentle with you. Oh, is that the problem? You like it rough? Why, you’ve only got to ask. Obliging, that’s my middle name!”

Buffy took a quick step towards him, her cheeks flaring red, her fist clenched. He stared up at her, the sneer fading from his lips as their gaze caught and held. There was a roaring inside her head – she was smashing through the floors of the abandoned house, holding him effortlessly between her thighs, riding him till he moaned and groaned and spun her round to punish her in a way that left her weak and gasping for more and more…

She turned away, but not before she’d seen the flash of puzzlement and desire cross Spike’s face – and she felt a surge of pleasure. Whatever he said, whatever he felt for that mad mass murderess, Dru, he didn’t hate her as much as he said he did!

The Colonel had got his breath back and was trying again to make his point. “You can’t honestly be telling us that you intend sleeping with that – with William the Bloody? Where’s your self-respect? Your pride as a Slayer?”

“My what? Pride? Hey, I’m proud of what I do – proud of saving lives, making the world a safer place. I came from America when I was called in order to help. I’m sorry I couldn’t rescue Joy, but I’m glad that at least we got Aurora out of France. I’m the Slayer; I’m trained to do that, to risk my life every day. Now ordinary people are doing exactly the same thing: they have no choice, but they still do it. But there’s always a cost. Always! Hundreds of thousands of them are dying. Jeez, if all I have to do is sleep with a vampire in order to get home to continue with my mission, well, then, so be it.”

“Still sitting right here. What the hell do you people think I am? Some sort of sex toy?”

Buffy turned round to him, her expression stopping his words in mid snark. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but trust me, OK? I’ll explain everything.”

Valerie Figgs looked interested. “You intend telling him the truth? Is that wise, my dear?”

Buffy shrugged. “I’ve trusted him in the past and will do again in the future. So I may as well trust him in the present, especially if that charm works, as you say it will. Then neither of us will remember what happened to us.”

“The future - ? Yes, it’s fascinating that William the Bloody has survived until – “

“Valerie!” The Colonel held up a warning hand. “We must be careful what we talk about. So Miss Summers, if you will not heed my advice, what do you intend to do next.”

Buffy glanced at the witch. She had the oddest feeling that the large, cheerful woman had more than a touch of sympathy for her situation. “You say I need to be in France for this to be successful?”

“I’m not certain; it isn’t an exact science.” Valerie pulled the large purple and black lozenge out of her pocket and wiped the fluff from its sticky surface. Buffy hoped with all her heart that Henry hadn’t been licking it. “This was sent from your colleagues. Whoever made it was very clever, obviously an extremely talented witch; I would love to meet her. But I can’t be sure that if you use it here, away from where you first arrived in France, that it will work properly. And once you’ve eaten it, if nothing happens, then there’s no second chance, of course.”

“So Spike and I need to get back to France.” She turned to the Colonel. “Is that possible? We crashed the plane.”

Colonel Monroe sighed. “If you’re determined, then I’ll find a way.”

Buffy nodded and turned to Spike. “If they untie you, will you promise me not to feed on anyone?”

“You expect me to starve to death, Slayer? I’m fading away even now.”

“I’ll find you some blood! I just need your word that you won’t make any trouble on our way to France.”

Spike hesitated. He was hungry, he wanted to feed, he wanted to kill the Slayer! She would be his second; that would be one up on Liam. The thought of giving his word not to feed and meaning it – well, that was a concept he hadn’t thought about for a very long time. It was odd that this Slayer seemed to believe implicitly that once he promised, he would stick to it. That she trusted him. A small flicker of something he would once have called pride swept through him.

“And the shagging, Slayer? Are you ready to dance? Is that still on the agenda?”

Buffy stared down into the face that was so familiar and yet so different - brown curls, still soaked in blood and sticking to his forehead, the odd clothes, the smell of the French cigarettes he’d been smoking still clinging to his body. But the eyes were the same and unchipped or not, they seemed to laugh up at her. She wondered how he would react when she told him that they knew each other in the future, knew each other very well! That there was no need for them to make love now because they already had – in the present and in the future. The bond was there; it burnt between them like a flame that could never be extinguished. But at the moment she had to persuade him to behave.

“If you want to get back to France, to start looking for your girlfriend, then you’ll do as I say.”

A shadow crossed Spike’s face – bloody hell, he’d done it again. Dru, Dru, Dru! He had to keep thinking of her, to blot out whatever this insane feeling he had for the Yankee bint.

“OK, Slayer, don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll come with you to France. Poxy place! Still, it’ll get me on my way east. I bet that’s where my Dru’s headed. A lot of death out there. Death and destruction.”

Buffy winced. She knew better than anyone else in the room exactly how much horror Dru would find when she reached Eastern Europe. It seemed absurd that she had come all this way through time and could do nothing to make the slightest difference. Obviously being a Slayer was fine during an apocalypse, but not a world war.

Colonel Monroe left to make arrangements and Valerie announced she would cook breakfast and did Spike think raw black pudding, made locally with pig’s blood, would help his hunger.

“With fried onions?” he asked hopefully, giving her a smile that sent the colour up into her cheeks.

“I’ll see what I can do!” And she whisked out of the room, leaving Henry squatting under the bed, eyeing Spike’s bootlaces with a hungry stare.

“Are you going to untie me, Slayer?”

Buffy shook her head. “Not yet. It wouldn’t be fair on them. Monroe would throw a fit if I did and I’m pushing him to the edge as it is. We need his help to get to France.”

Spike leaned back to ease the tightness of the ropes that were cutting into his wrists. He didn’t mind the pain, but he hated being tied down. He supposed he could break free if he wanted to – the wooden slats of the chair seemed a bit flimsy when he tested them – but he knew it would upset Buffy. Stupid name for a girl!

“So, pet, what’s the big secret everyone knows but me? All this flapping around in order to get you back to the States. It must be something special to get the Watchers’ Council jumping through hoops. And I’m not getting involved in any magic charm until I know what’s involved.”

Buffy sat down on the edge of the bed, stroking Henry’s head as he jumped into her lap. She couldn’t blame Spike: she would probably feel the same in his position.

“Before you begin, light me a cigarette, will you. I’m dying for a fag. And don’t tell me it’s bad for me, again. I’m dead! Remember?”

Buffy sighed and reached across him to fish a squashed packet of cigarettes out of his back pants pocket. Her hair brushed his lips and he fought to control the shudder that ran through his body. She pushed a cigarette between his lips and forced herself to plunge her hand into another pocket to pull out the metal lighter he’d stolen in France. She was too close! She could feel the chill of his body through the thin material, almost count his eyelashes as their heads met.

She clicked the lighter, wrinkling her nose as the smell from the French tobacco filled the little room. He nodded his thanks, his gaze never leaving her face as she sat back on the bed, fondling the lighter, not looking at him directly. He could still smell the carbolic soap she’d washed with and under that a scent that was just – her. He drew in a deep breath, imprinting it on his nerve endings, knowing that from now on, he would never forget it, would always know whenever she was around.

“The secret’s very simple, Spike. I’m the Slayer; I live in a town called Sunnydale in California on top of the Hellmouth and the year is 2001. And we – well, we know each other. Know each other very well. I want to go home, Spike, and apparently, you’re the only person who can help me.” And raising her head, she found herself smiling at the look of astonishment on his face.


	14. Lies

 

 

We will remember them…  
By Lilachigh

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter 14 Lies!

 

Spike still couldn’t believe it. “Tell me again.”

Buffy sighed – this was the third time she’d related how they’d met. “Your hair’s sort of platinum blond.”

“Why would it be blond?”

“Geez, Spike – the colour of your hair doesn’t matter! That isn’t the most important part of the problem.”

“And I wear a long leather coat? OK, that I can believe. Wonder where I got it from?”

Buffy shut her eyes and swore under her breath. An hour ago Colonel Monroe had left the cottage as she began her explanations to Spike, saying he would try and make arrangements to transport them both to France. She’d insisted that Spike be untied, giving her word that he would behave.

She’d helped him to the bathroom and watched as he’d plunged his head into a basin of cold water, scrubbing the blood from his hair as she told him of Sunnydale and a world he would one day inhabit.

He’d towelled his hair dry without saying a word, but his eyes were watchful. Her explanations dried up as he pulled on the disreputable old linen shirt that Valerie Figgs had found him. Dark blue and collar-less, it had apparently belonged to her father and now shut from Buffy’s sight the bruises and cuts that criss-crossed his skin. Now Spike was sitting in the kitchen where the curtains were shut against the morning sun, devouring the huge breakfast Valerie had placed in front of him – raw black pudding, a piece of uncooked steak and fried onions all washed down with a vast mug of very strong tea.

Buffy refused to turn away as he bit into the steak, blood trickling down his chin, his eyes glowing golden for a couple of seconds. He had to regain his strength: she had the feeling that was going to be important. The blood she could accept, but she had never been able to understand why Spike seemed capable of eating ordinary food and enjoying it.

When the witch left the room – Valerie admitted she found being close to a vampire who was free to move around very unsettling - Spike sat, feeding toast crumbs to Henry the toad. His silence was unnerving: Buffy couldn’t remember the last time in this year or in the future when Spike had been silent for longer than five minutes.

Eventually, exasperated, she said, “Have you understood anything I’ve just told you?”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Might not be the brainiest vamp around, pet, but yes, have a sort of idea that you’ve travelled back in time from the next millennium where apparently I’m still alive and we know each other.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “It explains you being weird. Explains your clothes, even the way you talk. It’s magic, isn’t it? There’s a lot of it around if you know where to look. I don’t like the stuff myself; I’m more a bite and drink kind of guy. My Dru loves it all, though. She’s always seeing weird portents in the stars and swears her dolls talk to her when no one else is listening. Once she spent nights dancing round Stonehenge, calling up all sorts of spooks and spirits. Waste of bloody time because Liam just killed them as soon as they appeared. He’s not keen on mojo is old Angel. Hey, do you know him, too? Is he still hanging around in America like a big wet week?”

Buffy bit her lip. She was trying her hardest to tell Spike just enough to convince him that they would share a connection in the future, but there was no way she was going into all the details of her love life and she certainly didn’t want to sit here listening to him showing his affection for Dru so openly.

“So who won the War?” he went on when she didn’t reply. “No, don’t tell me. I want it to be a surprise. I’ve no idea why I’d be in America, though they’ve got some great cars I’d like to drive. And why are we both still alive in the same place? I’d have thought I would have bloody well taken you out – killed my second Slayer.” He speared the last piece of fried onion and offered it to Henry who burped loudly and shut his emerald eyes in disdain. “Or you could have staked me, to be fair. Got to admit you’re not bad in a fight.”

“We fought when we first met,” Buffy admitted. “You nearly killed me but – ”

“I let you go?” Spike sounded amazed.

“No, my mom hit you over the head with an axe!”

Spike’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Bully for Mrs Summers. Sounds as if she’d make a better Slayer than you, pet.”

“Don’t call me pet and – ” she hesitated, then blurted out, “Mom’s dead. She – she liked you.”

There was a silence. Spike found he had reached out to clasp the Slayer’s hand and silently swore at himself. “Sorry about that. I remember my mum dying too.”

Buffy blinked away the tears that still burnt her eyes when the raw memories still burnt her mind. “I never thought of you having a mom.”

Spike tipped his chair back at a perilous angle and Henry leapt under the table to have a friendly chat with a spider. “Well, I didn’t come out of a blooming egg! ’Course I had a mum. And a dad, though he popped his clogs when I was a nipper so I don’t recall much about him.”

Buffy thought fleetingly of her own father. She could remember the good times spent with him when she was small and the place deep inside her that knew her being the Slayer was the reason he’d left home, whatever her mom had told her. Her hand went to her neck to touch the locket her parents had given her for her thirteenth birthday and found bare skin. “Oh great - I gave my necklace to Aurora to play with, didn’t I? I bet someone is wearing it by now. Probably that farmer’s wife at the airstrip.”

Spike’s chair thudded back down. “Forget your sodding jewellery and that bloody kid, Slayer. What do we do next?” His mouth curled into a wide smile. “Well, I know what we’re supposed to do, of course, but somehow I don’t think the witch will be that impressed if she finds us shagging on the kitchen table.”

“Pig!”

“Sticks and stones, Slayer. Sticks and stones. If the witch is right, I’m your passport out of 1943, so you have to be nice to me.” As he curled his tongue behind his teeth and leered, Buffy resisted the urge to punch him on the nose. Because he was right. Being nice to Spike was apparently her only way home. And the worst thing of all was that she so desperately wanted to “be nice” to him. She wanted his mouth on her body, his tongue tangling with hers, the feel of those hard, cold fingers on her breasts.

Spike shot her a look. He knew that scent, knew when a woman wanted – but the Slayer? God, she was a weird girl. He fervently hoped he didn’t have too much to do with her in the future: Dru would kill him if he did. Dru! “Is Dru with me in the future? Dark haired girl, small, big eyes.”

Buffy fought to control her feelings and her voice. “Yes. You were with her when you arrived in Sunnydale.”

Spike gave a sigh of relief. That was all right then. Whatever connection he and the Slayer had, it couldn’t be that deep if Dru was still around. He would never feel for anyone the way he did for her, he told himself. “So, we’re what – enemies, friends, pen-pals?”

“Working colleagues,” Buffy replied, crossing her fingers under the table as she used to do when lying to her mom when she was small.

Under the table, Henry, who was good at lies too, ate the spider.

“You – help out sometimes, you know with demon problems, information, that sort of thing. You get paid!”

Spike nodded. That sounded okay; he would do a lot for cash, even shag a Slayer if he had to.

“So, we go to France, do some naughties, chew the charm and then you vanish in a puff of smoke and I get on with enjoying myself. Of course, what will probably happen is we swallow that toffee thing and die screaming in agony. Do you really trust the Council?”

Buffy yawned. She was so tired; all she wanted to do was sleep. Did she trust the Council? No, of course she didn’t. But Colonel Monroe and Valerie seemed okay people. She didn’t think they would betray her. The Colonel had risked a lot to rescue them and the witch was the type of woman who seemed oblivious to power struggles and conflicts.

“Not so much, but I think the Colonel and Valerie are all right. And I haven’t got much option, have I? Not if I want to get home again, although I imagine some people, namely a certain Quentin Travers, will be surprised to see me.”

Spike glanced up sharply, his senses alerted by a tone he could hear in her voice. “If he was the bloke who sent you, why didn’t he give you some sort of return ticket?”

Buffy shrugged. The betrayal still burnt inside her, a dull flame that she knew would never go out. “I suppose he imagined I wouldn’t survive long enough to use it. And there are two Slayers in my world – losing one wouldn’t harm anything. I’ve died twice already!”

There was that note in her voice again. Spike frowned: not that it was any of his business and, of course, he couldn’t care less if the Slayer’s feelings were hurt, but it made him strangely uncomfortable listening to her talk about betrayal and death. “I take it I wasn’t responsible for either of them, otherwise I doubt we’d be sitting here, all domestic and cosy, having a nice chat over the toast and marmalade.”

“I didn’t know you when I first died. And the second time – that was, well, it was necessary to save the world. You – you saw me die.”

“Good!” That was good, wasn’t it? Watching a Slayer die must have been the highlight of his year, even if he wasn’t the one who killed her. He frowned. “But you came back?”

Buffy shut her eyes for a second then gave a little shrug. “I was – called back by my friends. They could do that because it wasn’t a mortal death, it was a demon one. It was a difficult time – is still. I felt – you said - Geez, it isn’t important what I felt, Spike. I’m back.” She laughed but it wasn’t a happy sound. “I saved the world and still couldn’t rest!”

“So, if you’ve already averted some poxy apocalypse, why were you sent here to rescue Joy?”

Buffy found herself smiling. “That’s just it - did I come back to save her or is it ‘not’ saving her that counts? I don’t know. I do know that I saved the world but perhaps the next time I won’t be around and it’s something Joy has done or will do that’s important.”

Spike drained his cup and stared down at the tea-leaves scattered over the inside. Dru liked to read his fortune when they drank tea: she would see danger all the time; strangers coming into their lives – and blood, always blood. Sometimes she lost control, seeing fires and smoke and mobs of people trying to kill them. He’d tended not to listen because people trying to kill them wasn’t really a prediction, more a certainty. But sometimes she said things that were just daft – that some demon with antlers was going to change his life forever. Yeah, how likely was that? But even all Dru’s weird and wonderful predictions had never been as odd as the story this girl was telling him. OK, it was great to know he wasn’t going to be dusted any time soon. Sixty more years of mayhem ahead. A bloke could live with that. But he still felt the Slayer was keeping something from him. What the bloody hell was he doing working for her? Even for money. Had he lost all his self-respect in those sixty long years?

He looked across the table at the American girl. She was fondling the toad who’d jumped into her lap, her strong, slender fingers massaging the skin round its neck. Spike had a sudden shameful desire to know what it would feel like if those same fingers fondled the skin on his –

“Right!” He dropped his cup back into the saucer so hard it cracked and lit a cigarette. “So what do we do about the shagging?” He smiled sweetly and fluttered his eyelashes at her, determined that she would never guess what he was really thinking. “I mean, I’m game, but I’ll need cajoling. I’m a sensitive soul and doing a Slayer will give me the heebie-jeebies.”

“You haven’t got a soul, sensitive or otherwise.”

“Why the hell would I want one of those? I was eternally grateful to Dru for helping me get rid of the one I was born with. All it did was stop me enjoying myself.”

Buffy’s fingers stopped stroking and Henry chirruped crossly for her to start again. “You’ll never have one again, so we don’t have to worry about it. Can we just concentrate on getting back to France? Then – well – things might be clearer by then.”

Spike looked puzzled. “Clearer how? ”

Buffy looked away: she still couldn’t decide how much to tell him. He seemed to have accepted that they knew each other well, even the time travelling hadn’t freaked him out, but to tell William the Bloody that they were having sex on a regular basis – she didn’t think he would believe her. Geez, she didn’t believe it herself most of the time – except when they were well, not having sex when all she could think about was doing it again. Because when they were, everything else went away – the continuing grief for her mom, worries about Dawn and money, being a Slayer with no future, being pulled out of Heaven to face a world that seemed harsh and uncaring. When she was in Spike’s arms, she was warm and happy and content.

The vampire sitting across the table from her, sucking the last of the raw black pudding from its rind in a disgusting fashion, was not the same guy. But, of course, he was.

So, OK, she would tell him and trust she could reach that part of Spike that in years to come would care for Joyce and Dawn – and even profess to love her. Show him that they didn’t need to have sex now because the physical connection between them already existed.

Her time in 1943 had to end, she had to return to her own world and cope with all the problems she faced there. One thing she had learnt, she thought grimly, was that when compared to things that had happened to ordinary people in the past, she really had very little to freak about.

Just then the kitchen door opened and Valerie came in. “Ah, Miss Summers. I have your own clothes here. I’m sure you’ll feel happier wearing them.”

Buffy thanked her, looking in astonishment at the clean, dry jacket and jeans. Valerie saw her expression and went pink. “Yes, don’t tell the Colonel. I know I am not supposed to use magic for domestic purposes, but I had no way of getting them dry overnight.”

Buffy grinned. “I won’t tell if you don’t. I’ve a friend who uses magic all the time, but I don’t think she’s ever used it to do the washing. Hey, that would save me a fortune in electricity!”

Valerie edged her way nervously round Spike and began clearing the table, obviously startled when he carried his plates over to the sink. Buffy left them to it, running upstairs to the bedroom to change out of her overalls. The door burst open as she was pulling her top over her head and as her head came free, she found herself looking straight at the vampire, who was leaning against the door, whistling silently.

“Like the lacy – er – underthingies, Slayer. The ones the girls wear today are much more substantial. That little bit of gauze doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”

Buffy refused to let him get to her. She picked up her jacket and was just swinging it round her shoulders when something flew out of a pocket and skidded across the floor to his feet. He picked it up, frowning. “Your passport, Slayer? Surely you don’t need one when you’re time travelling?”

He held it out and Buffy took it, puzzled. Then a flash of memory showed her the French woods, the soldiers with the jeep, Spike killing their civilian passenger, stealing his lighter, telling her he was an American, handing her the passport. She opened it, reluctant to know whom their victim had been.  
“Doctor Chester Baxter,” she muttered, staring down at the man’s face. Like so many passport photographs, it made him look like a criminal. She would never have recognised their victim from that. Well, whoever he had been, and whatever he’d been doing in France, he now lay mouldering in a muddy ditch.

As she flipped the pages of the little book, a folded sheet of paper slid out. There was a typed list of numbers and letters, none of which made any sense. But at the bottom of the page someone had written a note in pencil. Buffy read it, refusing at first to take in the words. But they didn’t change when she looked at them again.

“Check vampire figures with Professor Walsh at the Chateau.”

And with a sudden surge of elation, she realised that now there was no way she could just tamely swallow the charm and go home.

 

London – Watcher’s Council Basement. 2001

 

Dorcas Twigg, Witch in Residence, removed the end of her long scarf from her coffee mug and stared at the crystal ball sitting in the middle of her untidy desk. Her toad, Flanagan, sat next to it, his emerald eyes unblinking.

She reached out and stroked the cold glass surface, wishing she could make up her mind. “I really do not like calling up past witches,” she sighed. “I mean, you never know if it’s a convenient time – do you remember when Mr Travers wanted to contact Witch Beatrice in 1838 and she had to miss Queen Victoria’s coronation! She was not pleased. Not pleased at all.”

Flanagan, who at that time had been called Melbourne – sometimes he forgot all the names he’d had over the ages, but he’d been particularly fond of Melbourne – blinked his agreement.

“The amount of power needed! So expensive and the accounts department always throw a tantrum. And it’s always so exhausting and never good reception. But dear Rupert has asked again if Buffy Summers has indeed received the charm from Valerie Figgs to return her to Sunnydale. Of course, in my opinion, he shouldn’t have sent her back to 1943 if he can’t cope with the consequences.”

Flanagan blinked again and hoped the fly buzzing around the room would come close enough to be an early lunch.

“Still, 1943 isn’t that far back. Let’s give it a go!” She sighed again and rubbed the top of his head. “I do wish you could talk. You were there. You would know. Really, why the Powers that Be couldn’t have arranged for you to have a voice is beyond me.”

Flanagan – who would have been delighted to have related What He Did During the War – could only blink his agreement.

Dorcas placed her hands on the glass globe and taking a deep breath, began…..

* * * * * *

Rupert Giles sat in his office and poured himself a large Scotch. He stared around the room, not seeing the shelves of ancient books and interesting objects he’d collected over the years. He sipped the whisky, feeling pain gathering behind his eyes. He’d just heard from Dorcas that Buffy had managed to get back to England from France, she’d been given the charm and returned to France so she could take it at the place where she’d arrived in 1943. So why had there been no phone call from Sunnydale from a furious Slayer, asking why the original return potion hadn’t worked?

Giles reached for the phone, then hesitated. If his Slayer hadn’t returned it would only alarm and worry Dawn and the others. There was still plenty of time. The day still had a few hours to run. He’d been promised that Buffy would be back before the day ended.

“Where on earth are you, Buffy?” he muttered to himself. “Just eat the charm and come home.”

But at the back of his mind, a worm of doubt was twisting. Because Dorcas had also told him that William the Bloody, an unchipped vampire, was still with Buffy. And Giles had no great belief in Buffy’s ability to accept just how dangerous Spike had been.

* * * * * *

“If he looks at me funny again, I swear I’ll kill him!”

“Spike, he’s a toad. He can’t look at you in any particular way.”

“Still don’t understand what the bloody hell I’m doing standing here in the middle of poxy France with a Slayer and a frog. Thought you’d have gone home in a puff of smoke and clap of thunder by now.”

“Toad, not frog,” Buffy replied absently, staring out of the window. The hut was built on the edge of a field: the sun was rising and she could see cows appearing in ghostly fashion out of the early morning mist. She could also see her own reflection quite clearly – Henry was peering out from her jacket pocket - but as usual there was no sign of the vampire she knew was standing just behind her. “And you know Valerie insisted we bring Henry with us. She said – geez, I’m not quite sure exactly what the witch said because you were talking at the same time, but I think she meant it was important to my getting home that Henry was here when we – ”

“Shagged?” Spike asked, brightening up.

“Ate the charm and – well, anyway, Henry was part of the deal if we wanted to get to France again.”

“And how does he get home? Hop all the way? Not that I care two hoots, but if he’s not bloody careful, some garlic chomping bloke with a big black moustache will have his legs off him! I’d have a munch myself, except I don’t expect he’s got more than a few drops of blood in that body. And it would taste fishy, too.”

Buffy sighed. She’d forgotten just how irritating this Spike could be. The man she knew back home seemed more mature. Could sixty years make such a difference? Spike had been obnoxious all the way across the Channel. Crouching in the bows of the small fishing boat that Colonel Monroe had found to transport them, it had been a difficult journey – cold and wet, spray cascading over them as the boat butted into the wind. It had been a long, dark night as they picked their way down the heavily mined coastline to where the captain insisted was a safe place for them to scramble into a dinghy and row for the French shore.

A heavy sea had been running and Buffy had found it all she could do to concentrate on not being seasick, without the mutterings and moanings from the vampire sitting next to her.

The American passport was burning a hole in her pocket. The guy Spike had killed had been coming to see a Professor Walsh at the Chateau! Not her Professor Walsh, obviously, but it was too much of a coincidence. The Germans were obviously experimenting on vampires – she’d seen the horrible results herself. So a sort of Initiative was here, in France, in 1943. And an American called Walsh was connected with it.

Buffy rubbed her fingers across Henry’s rough head. He was travelling quite happily in her jacket pocket, seemingly oblivious to the rough seas. Was this the start of the Initiative? A Nazi based organisation? It made a dreadful sort of sense. She bit her lip. As far as Spike and Colonel Monroe knew, they were headed for France so she could eat the charm, have some sort of physical relationship with the vampire and then – wham – she would be back in Sunnydale. And the Spike she met there would have no memory of their time together in France. That was mega weird.

So, she should do just that – go home. The edge of the passport dug into her thigh. That was her first problem. She wanted to know about this earlier Professor Walsh, she wanted to discover if this really was the beginning of the Initiative.

Her second problem was, should she tell Spike that in the future, people like these Germans would put a metal chip in his head that would stop him from killing and feeding? Would, in fact, change him completely from the vampire he was here and now.

The fishing-boat wallowed sickeningly in the heavy swell and Buffy fought to keep her stomach where it was as it tried its hardest to climb into her throat. She knew that telling Spike would result in one thing - he’d want to fight them; he’d insist on releasing the vamps and she knew she couldn’t allow that. The French had enough to cope with, living with an occupying army; hordes of vampires wandering through the country was not a good idea. No, it was better that Spike thought she’d returned to her own time and went on his way across Europe to find his beloved Dru.

Buffy had no idea why she was so determined to check out this organisation. She just felt it was important. She remembered the expression on Valerie Figgs’ face when she’d handed over Henry. It had obviously been mega hard for the witch to part with her beloved toad, but her eyes had pleaded with Buffy to take him. Whatever was coming, Valerie thought Henry could help.

“Perhaps you turn into a Prince Charming and slay all my enemies to save my life,” Buffy muttered and pulled a face as her present Prince Charming continued to complain bitterly about crossing the Channel in something no bigger than a bath tub!

They’d been met on the shore by a thin, dark man driving a lorry. Two black eyes glinted at them from under a greasy beret and when he spoke it was obvious he didn’t understand English. To Buffy’s amazement, Spike had chatted to him in what sounded like fluent French but there had been no time for explanations. The man had gestured to the back of his lorry and for the next few hours they’d jolted along narrow country roads, wedged between large sacks of potatoes.

“Avoiding Nazi road blocks,” Spike had muttered as the lorry swung round bends into narrow lanes where they could hear trees and bushes dragging along the sides of the vehicle.

“When did you learn French?”

Spike shrugged. “I was a poncy bloke before my darling Dru found me. Latin, Greek, French, Italian - wasted my time learning the lot when I should have been out having fun. Tried to forget them, but things like that stick in your mind, don’t they?”

Buffy muttered a vague sound of agreement. She and foreign languages were very unmixy. Even the English that Giles and Spike used was sometimes unrecognisable.

Hours had passed and just when she felt she would scream at the aching in her arms and legs, they’d screeched to a halt and the back of the lorry had been flung open. The man had beckoned urgently for them to get out and hustled them into a damp, dark shed that was obviously used for storing cattle feed.

“Ask him how long until we reach the chateau again?” Buffy said urgently, but the Frenchman ignored Spike’s question and with a crashing of gears, the lorry vanished into the grey dawn of another day.

“So what next?” Spike snapped impatiently, throwing himself onto the floor and moodily kicking at a pile of hay bales. “When do you do the charm thing, Slayer? When do we shag so you can go back to the future? Where, according to you, I’ll be delighted to see you! Huh! There is no way that can be true.”

Buffy ignored his question. “How far do you think we are from the chateau?”

“What – do I look as if I’m a walking atlas of France? How the hell should I know? And why does it matter. Surely a couple of miles one way or the other isn’t going to make such a difference to a spell that’s powerful enough to bring you years into the past? Be a friggin’ poor charm if it has to be done on the exact spot where you actually arrived.”

Spike glared across the hut at the American girl. God, she was annoying. He was beginning to seriously doubt his own sanity. Magic! He hated the bloody stuff. Look at him – trailing around after a Slayer. He’d been thinking about that during the past few days. Here he was helping her, fighting by her side, not even attempting to kill her. Only magic could have weakened him in such a way. He knew Dru was free and somewhere in Europe. A few weeks ago he’d have just broken Buffy Summers’ neck and gone after his darling girl. All the Watchers and witches in the world wouldn’t have stopped him. So why was he still here, dancing to her tune?

He wished she would just use the charm and vanish out of his life. Her and the toad together. He could feel his temper fraying, odd sensations he’d never felt before were running along every nerve in his body, growing stronger and more painful. He needed to move, to get out of this bloody hut before he went mental.

Buffy left her position by the window and walked across to him. She stared down at the hunched shoulders, the thin, strong hands plucking at a boot lace. “What’s up with you? Bad moody or what?”

Spike stared straight ahead, then realised the top of her legs were level with his eyes and he was gazing at the place where the material around the zip was fraying. It would take very little to tug it open and –

“I’m bloody hungry, Slayer! That’s the problem. Do you realise how long it’s been since I had a proper meal?”

Buffy bit her lip. “You had that steak for breakfast and – ”

Spike swung to his feet. “I need blood. Pints and pints of nice, hot, red blood. I’m getting weaker by the minute and I don’t intend to fade away just because you’re a Slayer. Look – I said I’d help you get home and I always keep my word – especially to a lady. So, let’s eat the toffee thing, give me a kiss or open your legs, or whatever else you have to do to make it work and then you’ll be home and I can get on with – ”

“Killing people!”

Spike roared and vamped out. “It’s what I do, you stupid Yank.”

Buffy’s fist arced towards his face before she’d even realised she was going to punch him. But Spike’s hand swung up and caught her fingers in his own and they stood, glaring into each other’s eyes, each fighting to overpower the other.

Spike’s face shimmered back into human and with a growl he threw Buffy’s hand down and away. Panting slightly, she pulled Henry from her pocket and put him on the floor. The black and purple candy had been squashed under the toad’s body and with one short gesture, Buffy pulled the charm apart, giving one half to Spike. “OK! There you are! Geez, I’ll be glad to see the back of you. You’re much – ” She stopped abruptly; she’d been about to say “You’re much nicer in 2001,” then realised how ridiculous that was. Spike was himself – she had to accept that.

The man she wanted wasn’t there – yet. It was no use wishing for the Spike she could talk to, no use longing for the warmth that came from knowing he would always be at her side and believe she was doing the right thing – even when she wasn’t.

Spike peered at the black and purple toffee in his hand. “So, what do we do now? Do you want me to – ”

Buffy took a step backwards and forced herself to say. “No! We don’t have to do that. I reckon if you can bear to kiss me, that should be enough. And don’t pull that face! I’m not some monster from the deep and it’ll be just as difficult for me, but I’m not complaining, am I?”

“So we kiss – then do we swallow the charm?”

Buffy hesitated. She had no intention of eating her half yet but once Spike had taken his, all his memories of their time together would be erased. She’d be left with a vampire whose only aim in life would be to kill her.

Spike watched the emotions chase each other across her face. It was alarming how easily he could read her mind. The Slayer had no real idea if this was going to work. “I get it; you don’t want me around in case this is all a gigantic cock-up. OK, Summers, I’ll stay here in the hut with Henry and you make your way towards the chateau. It’s about half a mile away – through the woods.”

“What? You told me you had no idea – ”

“I lied. So bite me, Slayer! Now, are you going or not? I’ll give you half an hour, then I’m eating our little striped friend here.”

Buffy slid the candy back into her pocket and bent to pick up the toad. “I’ll take him with me, but OK, give me thirty minutes.  
Then – well – I suppose it's goodbye.”

“Don’t you mean au revoir? Not as if we’re never going to meet again, tragic though that thought is.”

Buffy nodded. There would be the Bronze, a vampire, this man clapping his hands in appreciation of her fighting skills. Fights, arguments, liking and loathing and love, well lust, anyway, she thought hastily.

“Right – do I kiss you, or you kiss me?”

Buffy tried not to smile at the hopeful expression on his face. Swiftly she crossed the room in two strides, took his face between her hands and let her lips touch his. She’d only meant it to be the lightest of kisses, a mere graze, nothing more. She’d certainly not expected her lips to open, for his mouth to tease hers, his tongue and hers dance in an explosion of sensation.

Henry – squashed between two bodies that seemed determined to mould into one – croaked his indignation. Buffy stumbled backwards towards the door and, for a second, through his whirling vision, Spike was certain he saw tears on her cheeks.

“Half an hour,” she whispered. “Goodbye.”


	15. Spies

We will remember them…  
By Lilachigh

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter 15 Spies?

 

The sun was fighting to cut through the clouds as Buffy made her way through the woods towards the chateau. She was glad it was going to be a sunny day – it would keep Spike inside the cattle shed until she was long gone. If it had been dark, she wouldn’t have trusted him not to follow her, just out of curiosity. But now he would eat the charm and forget all about her.

Back in England, Colonel Monroe and Valerie Figgs had assured her that all Spike would remember was that Dru had escaped from captivity and that he had to find her again. His time in France with the Slayer would be wiped from his mind.

“And the same thing will happen to you when you swallow the charm,” Valerie had said firmly. “You’ll go forward into your own future and just – well, carry on as normal, I suppose.”

“But I won’t remember any of this? Joy, Aurora, Spike, even Henry?” Buffy had joked, looking at the toad who gazed back with a disdainful expression.

“That’s right. Everything will have gone.”

Buffy had nodded her acceptance of this, wondering why the truth left her feeling sad. This time had nothing to do with her life in Sunnydale in 2001. She had failed in her mission to return Joy to England – it wasn’t her finest hour!

Buffy slowed to a halt as she crested a rise and realised the trees were thinning and the great grey shape of the chateau was beginning to appear. Sheltering behind the trunk of a vast beech tree, she peered round it cautiously. The woods she’d just hurried through had been oddly empty – no German soldiers on patrol and no sign of anyone local. In the back of her mind she’d hoped that Joy would appear, would have survived the last battle and be willing now to go home to England, to be reunited with her little daughter.

Was she still alive or had another Slayer been called already. “Let’s hope she isn’t French if she has,” Buffy muttered to herself. “Two’s too many, three would be impossible. Spike would freak!”

She glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see the vampire lounging against another tree, lighting one of those foul French cigarettes, glaring at her. A cold shiver ran up her back. Of course he wasn’t there. Hours had passed since she’d left the cattle shed: he’d have swallowed his half of the charm and be on his way across Europe to find his lover by now.

Buffy pushed her hand past the bulk of Henry, who was sleeping in her jacket pocket, and fingered her half of the purple and black striped candy. She knew, of course, that she had to eat it and go home, she didn’t belong in this time, but she was determined to check out this Professor Walsh before she went. The thought sickened her that an American was involved in the horrors the Nazis were unleashing on the vampires and demons they had captured. Killing vampires was her mission in life and she was good at it. She had no idea of the numbers she’d staked over the years, but you did it quickly and cleanly. She could still remember the cages in the Initiative. The torture, pain and suffering imposed on things that couldn’t fight back – geez, it just hadn’t been – well, it hadn’t been American!

She stared at the brooding bulk of the chateau. From where she was standing she could see the long, windowless building in the grounds, surrounded by barbed wire. Spike had called it a vampire prison. What the hell was going on in there? Buffy shuddered: she knew only too well that it wasn’t just vampires and demons that were being experimented on in camps all over Europe. People – men, girls, even children were being used as guinea pigs in sick experiments.

She shook her head to dispel the pictures: there was nothing she could do about that, but if there was any way she could stop this Professor Walsh from whatever he was doing, then that would mean this whole time travel thingy hadn’t been for nothing.

Buffy pulled the American passport out of her pocket and flicked it open. Dr Chester Barnes had been a man in his late forties. The picture was as hideous as most passport photos but he seemed to have fairish hair and glasses. She wondered if anyone had found his body or if the Resistance had dealt with it in some way? She remembered the young soldier she’d left unconscious at the side of the track and shuddered. She didn’t think his life would have lasted long if the French freedom fighters had found him.

All she needed was a few hours inside the chateau; time to discover what was happening.

“And the best form of defence is attack,” she muttered. “Or should that be the best form of attack is defence? Sometimes I reckon I should have listened more carefully to Giles! OK, Henry, hunker down and don’t croak too loudly.”

Buffy tied her hair tightly behind her neck and taking a deep breath, walked calmly and confidently out of the woods and along the driveway that lead to the main door of the chateau.

* * * * * *

“Fraulein Summers?”

Buffy hid her jump of surprise and turned to see a tall, fair-haired man wearing an immaculate grey uniform standing in the doorway.

A couple of hours had passed since the guards at the imposing front entrance door of the chateau had led her inside and escorted her at gunpoint to this room. On the wall above the fireplace hung a huge painting of Adolf Hitler. An elaborate, carved stone ceiling soared above her head and somewhere a draught caused one of the tapestries hanging on the wall to flutter and bang against the grey stones.

“Yes, I’m Buffy Summers and hey, I do not appreciate being treated like a prisoner. I’ve been waiting here for ages. What’s your problem?”

The man walked forward and sat behind a desk inlaid with ivory and mother of pearl. He gestured to a chair and Buffy sat, her every movement showing her impatience and irritation at being kept waiting.

“I am Oberst Visser. I am in charge of this facility. I trust you can understand my English?”

Buffy nodded. “Perfectly.”

“That is good.” He paused. “Can you explain, Fraulein Summers, why an American young lady should suddenly appear at our gates, demanding entrance to speak to one of our employees? Perhaps you are a spy? Perhaps I should throw you in a cell.”

Buffy raised her chin and pretended to be Cordelia Chase at her most supercilious. “Do I look like a spy? I am Personal Assistant to Doctor Chester Baxter. I believe you know his name? We have come from the States to help with – well – with the project.”

Oberst Visser frowned. “Indeed. We have been waiting for Dr Baxter to arrive. Has he been delayed?”

Buffy felt a surge of relief. They hadn’t found the bodies! Or the jeep. This man had no idea that Dr Baxter was dead. “Yes, for a few days. I was sent ahead to – to – check out – things with Professor Walsh!”

The Oberst tapped his fingers on the desktop then picked up his letter opener, feeling the needle sharp point with his thumb. There was something very odd about this young woman’s sudden arrival. “And where is your transport, Fraulein?”

“My jeep broke down – several miles away. The driver is trying to mend it. A local farmer gave me a lift in his cart. Now I would be grateful if you would escort me to Professor Walsh. I have some figures for him from Dr Baxter.”

Buffy pulled out the paper with the list of numbers and letters on it that she’d found inside the Doctor’s passport. She wasn’t quite certain what she would do if the German refused – but the window looked easily broken and she had already discovered that they were only on the second floor of the chateau. She reckoned she could jump quite easily and be away before the alarm was raised.

Oberst Visser stared at the paper. He felt complete disgust for what the scientists were trying to achieve here at the chateau, but his orders were quite clear, the American Walsh and this Doctor Baxter were to be given every assistance. He glanced up at the picture hanging above the fireplace: those instructions came direct from the Fuhrer’s office!

He stood up. “You have had a long journey, Fraulein Summers. Allow me to arrange for a room to be put at your disposal. Although this is a military establishment, we are like a family. We do not stand on too much ceremony. I am sure you will wish to, how do you say, ‘wash and brush up’ before meeting Professor Walsh. And perhaps some coffee, although I am afraid we have difficulty in obtaining the best.” He laughed. “There is a war on, you know!”

Buffy smiled politely. “And I will meet Professor Walsh – ?”

Oberst Visser nodded. “I will inform him that you have arrived. When you are ready, perhaps you will make your way down to the main hall. I will arrange for a guard to escort you to the Professor’s laboratory.”

“I’m sure I can find my own way – ”

“No, no, I insist. You are our guest, Fraulein Summers. The work your good Doctor and the Professor are undertaking is extremely important to the Third Reich.” His top lip curled for a moment in what, to Buffy’s surprise looked like disgust, then he went on “Yes, extremely important.”

* * * * * *

Spike paced moodily around the dark shed, tossing the purple and black sweet from hand to hand. Two hours had passed since the Slayer had left and he guessed she was back in the future by now. Could you say back in the future? he thought angrily. Didn’t make sense, even in Yankee talk. Well, she’d gone, anyway, and good riddance! It wasn’t fair to a self-respecting vamp for the Council to change the rules and have two Slayers around at the same time. Wankers! And she’d been such a slip of a thing.

“Could have taken her with one hand tied behind my back,” he muttered. “Can’t believe that I end up working for her in the future. She must have got that all wrong. I bet I have a plan to kill her – probably a good plan and I need to be close to her to make it work. Yes, that sounds right.”

He paced faster; he loathed being trapped indoors. “So, I just eat the charm and everything inside my head that’s to do with the American Slayer just vanishes. Huh! How do I know this thing won’t wipe my brain completely, turn me into a raving lunatic? How do I know this isn’t a Council scheme to get rid of me?”

For one ridiculous moment he found himself thinking “I’ll ask Buffy,” then could have kicked himself where it hurt for being so stupid. The Slayer had gone: just like that. One kiss and off she’d hurried. “Can’t imagine what’s so wonderful about 2001 that she wants to get back to it!”

He opened the shed door and stared out. The sun had vanished behind a thick bank of cloud. There was only a short stretch of grass to cover before he would be inside the shelter of the woods. He put the sweet to his lips, then hesitated. For some reason, the witch back in England had been quite certain that both he and the Slayer had to eat the charm. But if Buffy had already gone, then there was nothing to stop him from just carrying on as usual. He would find Dru, make plans, cause havoc and enjoy himself. And if he did remember the Slayer, well, that would give him an edge when they met again in the future. She wouldn’t know him, but he’d know her. And now he’d been told that her Mum hit him on the head with an axe, well, perhaps he could duck faster now he knew that was going to happen. Mother and daughter – he could take them both. He didn’t think another vamp had ever killed a Slayer and her mother on the same day. Liam would be green with envy. He’d pout and sulk and Spike would enjoy telling him the story every time they met.

Spike pulled his jacket over his head and before he could change his mind, covered the ground into the woods. He was beginning to smoulder as the deep green shade swallowed him up and he turned his face to the east. Somehow he knew that was where he would find Dru.

But he’d only walked a couple of miles when he stopped. Sod it! What if him not eating his half of the charm meant the Slayer was stuck in 1943? What if she hadn’t gone? A flare of pleasure ran through his body, puzzling him until he realised it was because it gave him the upper hand over the American girl. If it needed both of them to work the charm, then he’d insist on being paid for his help and just another sodding kiss wasn’t going to be enough. No, a man had needs and even if she was the Slayer, he reckoned she might be glad of a lesson or two he could give her! Then he’d eat the charm.

He grinned and began to retrace his steps, back towards the chateau. If she was anywhere around, he’d sense her and then - he moved faster, his mind picturing her mouth, her skin, the warmth of her body close to his. He’d strip her clothes off, one by one and then - All this being colleagues in the future was a load of bollocks. He knew what she really wanted, because it was the same as -

“Big Bad’s on his way, baby!” he was saying in a dreadful American accent, when the net fell from the trees above him!

 

It was the smell Buffy noticed first! As she followed a young German soldier down a steep, winding stone staircase into the depths of the chateau, the air seemed to thicken around her and what had been a faintly unpleasant smell at the top step, made her stomach lurch ominously by the time she reached a door at the end of the long passageway that stretched away from the foot of the steps.

Buffy immediately recognised where they were – the cells where Joy, the English Slayer, had been held captive with her baby daughter. But these cellars under the chateau were now empty. Even as she gazed around, remembering, the soldier unlocked another small door and gestured for her to descend the stone steps behind it.

They were now far deeper underground than the cells where Joy and Aurora had been imprisoned. The walls of the steps were carved out of solid rock; moisture glistened and trickled and underfoot, damp seeped into her boots.

The soldier who was guiding her - he didn’t look any older than Xander - pulled a face as the foul air caught in her throat and she coughed. They reached the bottom step and muttering something under his breath, he shook his head as he knocked on a metal door that looked weirdly out of place, set in the dark grey rock.

After a long pause, Buffy heard bolts being shot back and a key turning. Whatever they had inside, the Germans were determined to keep from escaping.

A tall, thin young man, untidy brown hair, black-rimmed spectacles, wearing a white laboratory coat opened the door with an impatient, “Yes, what is it now? Can’t we be left in peace for ten minutes?” And the accent left Buffy in no doubt – he was American.

“Professor Walsh?” she said tentatively.

“That’s my father. I’m Dr Walsh – Joseph Walsh.” He stared over the top of his glasses at Buffy. “Why, you’re American!”

“Yes – I’m Buffy, Buffy Summers. I – I work for Doctor Baxter.” She tried to appear confident, how she thought a Personal Assistant should sound.

“Ah, we wondered when the Doctor would arrive from the States. Well come in, come in. We need to lock this door. You can never be too careful when dealing with Them, as I’m sure you know.”

He ushered Buffy inside and she coughed as the foul smell rose up in waves to assault her. She was standing in another corridor and could see that along its entire length were cages – but not the big, modern, clinical ones that the Initiative would build in Sunnydale all those years in the future. No, these were small, no more than narrow boxes carved from the rockface, with metal bars along their sides. She could hear growling and rustling noises and suddenly something close by thudded against the bars of its cage and a tortured, vicious face with bared yellow fangs was snarling up at her.

Dr Walsh crashed the heavy stick he was carrying against the cage and the vampire flinched away, back into the dark foulness it was lying in.

“Sorry about that, Miss Summers, but I expect you’re used to their behaviour. This is a new batch that’s just been delivered; they’re still a bit full of themselves, but we’ll soon knock that out of them. My father and I have been very interested to read Dr Baxter’s notes about his work on demons. He has some advanced ideas we would like to see in action.”

Buffy nodded. “Oh yes, very advanced. He’s – he’s anxious to meet you – but he’s been - delayed.” She wondered fleetingly what this guy would say if she told him a vampire had killed the American scientist. Trying to appear brisk and efficient, she pulled the notes from her pocket, wincing when she saw that Henry the toad had been chewing on a corner. “I brought the Professor these, er, lists.”

The young man took them enthusiastically. “Thank you. How very interesting. Hmmm…” he seemed to forget about Buffy as he studied the notes. They were walking slowly along the corridor, all of Buffy’s nerves jangling as the overpowering sense of vampire came at her from all sides.

“How many – vamps and demons – do you have in here?” she asked at last.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry. I was so interested in Dr Baxter’s notes – well, I’m not sure. They come and they go! As you can imagine. The Germans provide us with a constant supply. I must admit they have proved extremely helpful.”

“But we’re at war with Germany!” Buffy couldn’t stop herself. This young doctor with his untidy brown hair and smeared glasses could have been any of the nerds at college. Did he understand what he was doing, who his partners were?

Dr Walsh waved away her words. “Oh, that’s all politics. As your Doctor Baxter often says, ‘scientists should be above all that petty squabbling.’ My father thinks that science should recognise no borders or nationalities. So many of our German colleagues agree with us. And let’s face it, we couldn’t be doing this work of ours if there wasn’t a war on.”

“Is your father here today?” Buffy had no idea what she could possibly say or do to the older man that would stop him, but she knew she couldn’t just return to Sunnydale without trying.

“No, he’s gone to Berlin, he’s meeting with Herr Hitler. But you must meet my wife. She’s never met an American girl before. This way…”

He opened a door into a long, brightly lit laboratory and as she stepped forward, Buffy felt burning nausea flood her throat. A metal table stood in the middle of the room, a body, writhing against the ropes that bound it, was moaning and growling, yellow eyes starting out of its head as a young woman cut into its skull with a scalpel.

She looked up, smiled warmly at Dr Walsh, frowned at Buffy then stepped back as a spray of blood cascaded onto the floor and the vampire screamed again.

“Careful, sweetheart!”

“Sorry, Joseph.”

“Miss Summers, or may I call you Buffy? - this is my wife, Eva. Eva, this is Buffy Summers, Dr Baxter’s assistant.”

The young woman wiped her bloody hand across her white coat and held it out to Buffy. “I am very pleased to be meeting you, Miss Summers.”

Buffy felt the cold blood coat her palm and hid the shudder that zipped through her. The girl had long blonde hair, braided and twisted up on top of her head in a knot. She was small and not particularly pretty, but her smile was warm and friendly.

“Eva’s English isn’t too good yet,” Joseph Walsh explained with a fond smile. “We’ve only been married a few months.”

“And what exactly are you doing with the – vamp?” Buffy asked, trying to sound casual, aware that Henry was trying valiantly to climb out of her pocket. She pushed him back down and heard the irritated burp of an annoyed toad.

She walked across to the table and stared down at the body lying on it. He had once been a young man, dark haired, darkish skin, gypsy looking. The top of his skull was open to the air and Buffy hastily glanced away as she saw the grey gleam of his brain.

“Well, this is one of our more complicated procedures,” Joseph said enthusiastically. “To be honest, my father doesn’t like us to waste time on it but while he is away, Eva and I thought we’d take the opportunity to experiment.”

Evan picked up a square piece of metal. Wires led from it to a box at the side of the table. She motioned towards the vampire’s head. “I put in here – then turn on electricity.”

“We’re trying to control them. I’m sure there’s a way of altering their brain-waves,” the young boffin said. “What do you think, Buffy?”

Buffy fought to make her reply as non-committal as possible, wondering what they would say if she told them one of their descendents would find a way of putting a chip in a vampire’s brain that would render them harmless? “Interesting,” she managed. “Do you think it hurts them?”

The German girl looked surprised; her English was good enough to understand that. “They are vampires,” she said slowly, as if that was all that mattered.

Buffy nodded, hoping her revulsion didn’t show, knowing that in other camps all over Europe, the same sort of thing was being said, but not about vampires and demons, but about human beings.

She stared around the laboratory, trying not to look at the big glass jars on shelves and tables with odd bits and pieces floating inside them. Maybe she was the one who was wrong. Maybe this was where the basic knowledge that the Initiative used was created. So was she right to condemn it? Surely the chip as such was a good thing. Just because Spike had been the one to have it done to him – and if he hadn’t? Then they would never have –

She reached out to hold onto the edge of the metal table as the room swum around her for a second. This Spike, this William the Bloody whom she had fought, laughed and kissed in this time had no chip. And even if her feelings for him had been coloured by her memories of the future Spike, his behaviour had been almost identical in each time span. So although the chip controlled his feeding desire and his ability to hurt humans, it didn’t change the man himself at all.

Suddenly she realised that the vamp’s fingers were touching her hand as it rested on the bloody tabletop. She glanced down into eyes that were blazing with agony, hatred and fear. “Toterin!” The whisper came from the torn, twisted mouth and Buffy remembered from hours of boring study with Giles, so many years ago, the old German word for Slayer!

“What did it say?” Joseph asked curiously, looking up from where he was talking to his wife.

Buffy shook her head and coughed violently as the word was gasped out again. The vampire twisted and turned, fighting the ropes. “Watch out! It’s escaping,” Buffy shouted and pulling a stake from her waistband, sent it dissolving into dust, the hate-filled eyes the last things she saw before it vanished.

“Geez, I’m sorry! Have I ruined your experiment?” she gasped in pretend horror.

Dr Walsh struggled to hide his anger. “Not at all, plenty more where he came from, but perhaps we should leave my wife to get on. My father will be back tomorrow and we shall have to continue with our scheduled work.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

Dr Walsh smiled. “Oh, but you must know that, Buffy. It’s what your boss and my father have been working towards for years. It is only now that the German High Command is interested in the outcome that our experiments can continue unopposed.”

Buffy nodded, as if she understood exactly what he was saying. “Yes, Dr Baxter is delighted. So tomorrow – ?”

“We continue with our experiments to raise an army of vampires loyal to the Third Reich.”

“And how’s that going?”

Dr Walsh shrugged. “Slowly, I admit. We have volunteers from the German forces. Good, brave soldiers who are prepared to give up their human lives in order to serve their Fuhrer.”

“Sounds impossible.”

The young man took off his glasses and polished them on the hem of his blood-smeared lab coat. “I must admit we haven’t had any great success so far – the vamps we’ve produced have had to be staked immediately; we had no control over them at all. But we have to continue in order to obtain the funding from the German authorities to further our other work.”

“So you think an army of Nazi vampires is a good idea?”

Joseph cast a swift, anxious look over his shoulder but his wife was busy wiping the dust and blood from the operating table and couldn’t hear them. “Well, Buffy, to be honest I think it’s a crazy idea. Trying to control demons and vampires, yes, that seems a sensible use of time and resources. But apparently Herr Hitler is determined to have his vampire army and so that is our top priority.”

Buffy fell silent. Now she knew why she had been sent back to France, why the return charm hadn’t worked. OK, saving Joy had been the reason she’d been given by Quentin Travers, but all along she’d felt that was an excuse for something bigger. Preventing an army of Nazi vampires being raised – that was a mission she could embrace without a second’s doubt.

“My father decided we were using inferior vampires as our turners,” Dr Walsh continued. “So many of those still held in captivity are weak, fit for nothing but staking. As from tomorrow we are starting afresh, with strong young vampires, newly caught. Here – let me show you our breeding stock.”

At the far end of the laboratory, a door led into another room, lined with cages.

“All freshly caught, strong, full of energy. They will make great warriors for the German volunteers.”

Buffy stared around the cages; it was hard to see into the dark interiors. The vampires were staying as far away from the bars as they could. “Why should they help you?” she asked quietly.

“Because they’ll be staked if they don’t,” Joseph replied happily. “Here – our newest recruit. A little battered – some of our German colleagues are somewhat heavy-handed – but a prime specimen.”

He stood aside but even before Buffy stared into the cage, she knew. The hairs on the back of her neck twisted in a way they only did for one person. And the shadows moved, blue eyes blazed into hers and William the Bloody snarled up at the Slayer he had trusted.


	16. Blame the Slayer!

We will remember them…  
By Lilachigh

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

 

Chapter Twenty Nine:

Another Way

 

William the Bloody threw himself against the bars of the cage, vamping out, snarling in anger and frustration as the Slayer stood there, obviously on friendly terms with his captors. He knew he should never have trusted the bitch; she was the sodding Slayer!

He roared his rage, furious with her and even angrier at himself: letting her persuade him that they could work together, that in the future they were some sort of colleagues. She’d lied, right from the first time he’d laid eyes on her! God, if Liam ever found out, he’d never be able to hold his head up again! Bitch! His fangs ached to sink into her neck as another wave of fury shame and something very like disappointment washed over him.

Buffy stood and watched him impassively, fighting to betray no more emotion on her face than mere curiosity. She knew exactly what Spike was thinking and knowing that she couldn’t blame him tore at her like the fangs she could see so clearly wanted to do.

She fought back the overwhelming desire to tell him she hadn’t betrayed him, was not part of this disgusting experiment to turn German soldiers into vampires who would fight for the Third Reich, but she knew she couldn’t. There was no way that the young American doctor and his German wife could know that she and Spike were acquainted. Geez, if they even knew he was English….

She pointed at Spike and turning to Dr Walsh, said, “Interesting, I think this one is…is…” She hesitated for a split second. What languages did Spike speak? Her mind fled back in memory and forward in time to a Thanksgiving dinner, to Spike being chained in Giles’ bathtub and hearing him and her Watcher talking, in quite friendly tones, about things they’d learnt at school in England.

“….Latin! He knows Latin, I mean, he’s Italian, from Italy. I recognise the type.”

Doctor Walsh peered at the vampire. Admittedly it was hard to tell, through the yellow eyes and fangs, but he supposed there was an Italian touch to the brown curls. “He hasn’t said a word in any language yet,” he commented. “But an Italian vampire is OK with me. Should be happy to serve the Third Reich. We have a strong young sergeant just waiting for this one to turn him.”

Buffy stepped up to the bars, her face as close as she could get without touching. “You’re Italian, aren’t you, vampire? You don’t speak any English, do you?”

Her gaze never left Spike’s and slowly the golden rage faded and he vamped back into human face, a shudder running through his body, making his teeth chatter as his fangs vanished. What the hell did the bloody bint mean? Latin? Italian? He was no more a sodding Itie than she was. English and proud of it, him. He’d tell them, he’d show her…

Buffy’s fingers touched his where they were still gripping the bars. “Yes, definitely Italian. Can’t speak English, can you, vamp? See, he doesn’t understand me!”

Spike blinked. Her fingers were now rubbing softly across his clenched knuckles and for all the passion and desire he and Dru had experienced through the years, he knew he had never felt a touch as tender as this. And suddenly he understood; of course they mustn’t know he was English! She might have betrayed him, but the Slayer was still thinking on her feet. Why she waned to protect him, he couldn’t even imagine. She probably had an even nastier fate lined up for him, but in the meantime, if it saved him from whatever these doctors were planning then - “Non capisco!” he muttered hoarsely.

“Well, I don’t know much Italian myself, but it’s obvious what he means. OK, vamp, calm down, we’ll find someone to explain everything to you,” Dr Walsh said cheerfully. “Now, Miss Summers, if you’ll come back into the main laboratory with me, my wife is about to start another experiment. Perhaps you’d care to help her remove the top of the vamp’s skull? They tend to wriggle about when the saw cuts through – ”

“Jeez, I hate to miss that, but I…I have to write up my notes for Dr Baxter.” Buffy edged towards the door she reckoned led back into the long corridor lined with vamp cages.

Dr Walsh frowned. “I do hope he won’t be delayed for much longer. My father returns from Germany tomorrow and I know he wants to start on making our vampire recruits straight away. Even ten or twenty will be an incredible help to the war effort and once that has been achieved, my wife and I can continue out work, trying to find a way to control vampires and demons once and for all. Dr Baxter’s help in that will be invaluable.”

“And I’m sure he can’t wait,” Buffy gushed, pushing the picture of Spike feeding off the dead American professor out of her mind. “By the way, what happens to the vamps once they’ve turned the soldiers?”

Dr Walsh scratched his chin. “If they succeed in making a viable warrior, then we’ll keep them so they can repeat the process. We’ve no way of knowing how many humans a vamp can turn in one day, for instance. It’s all extremely interesting. Of course, if their – what shall I call them – progeny? – fail to accept our rules and regulations, then we’ll terminate them.”

Buffy pushed the door open. “Yes, of course. I remember now that was Dr Baxter’s opinion, too. Well – ” A piercing scream echoed through the laboratories – “Jeez, your wife is all sawy girl today, isn’t she? Don’t let me keep you, Dr Walsh. I expect she’ll be glad of a helping hand. I’ll see you tomorrow. It’ll be fun. Please don’t bother to see me out. I know how busy you are.”

Dr Walsh smiled vaguely, obviously distracted by the screams and yells coming from the big laboratory behind him. He shook Buffy’s hand and vanished back into the hell his wife was causing, the door closing behind him with a loud click. Buffy waited a heart beat until she was certain he wasn’t returning, then ran across the room to Spike’s cage. “Spike! Spike!”

“Non capisco.”

“He’s gone. Are you OK?” she whispered, feeling sure she could shout and no one would hear her above the dreadful sounds coming from the main laboratory.

Spike rolled over from where he was lying, curled up on the filthy floor and stood up. “Oh, never better, Slayer. Captured by a load of wanker doctors, just about to have my bloody head cut open, so I can serve Herr Hitler and oh yes, betrayed by the one person in France I thought I could half trust. OK, last part is my mistake. Won’t do that again in a hurry.”

Buffy ignored his moaning. In fact, she was only too glad to hear him complaining. His injuries couldn’t be that bad if he had the energy to whine like a hurt puppy. She was only too well aware that when Spike was badly injured, he said nothing and no one could ever make him speak. “You should have had more sense than to get captured,” she snapped, pulling at the bars of the cage. “I thought you were going to find your girlfriend?”

Spike shrugged. There was no way he was going to tell the Slayer about his plans or his change of mind.

“And they’re not going to operate on you: they want you to turn German soldiers so the Nazis have their own private vamp army.”

Spike cursed. “That’s exactly what I wanted to do! But little Miss Prissy Knickers didn’t want a vampire army roaming around Europe, did you? Well, eat your heart out, Slayer. Seems to me that’s exactly what you’re going to get. And at least I get to have some lunch.”

“Stop thinking about your stomach! If you imagine for one moment that I’m going to let you turn German soldiers – ” She tugged on the bars. “Anyway, why are you here? And why do you know who I am? Didn’t you eat your part of the charm?” She gritted her teeth and felt all her Slayer strength flow down her arms into her fingers. And the bars moved slightly.

Spike leant against the cage wall and watched her disdainfully. “Must have forgot. So why are you poncing about being friends with Mr and Mrs Jekyll? Thought you wanted to get home.”

Buffy paused in her efforts. There was an odd note in his voice. If she hadn’t known it was impossible, she would have said his feelings were hurt in some stupid way. “I do, and I am going back soon, but don’t you see, this must be why I was sent to France. Rescuing Joy was just an excuse to get me here – my mission is to stop the vampire army they want to build.”

“Good luck with that, then, Slayer. Just get me out of this cage and I’ll be off, then we’ll both be happy.”

Buffy stepped back, hands on hips. “Listen, if you want out, then you give me some help.”

Spike’s eyes gleamed. “Not strong enough to bend a couple of bars, pet? Thought Slayers were tougher than that. Perhaps it’s just a legend, a myth. Reckon you could take me in a fair fight?”

“One day, Spike – ” she stopped, remembering just where and how their last fair fight had ended up. She took a deep breath to calm down. “Look, you don’t have to like me – “

“Don’t!”

“Good. And I have no feelings for you except disgust – ”

Inside her jacket pocket, Henry, the witch’s toad she was carrying, woke up from a really nice sleep in disgust. Henry hated liars; they gave him indigestion.

“But if we work together, just this once, I can get you out of here. Of course, if you want to stand around like – like – Xander at a wiccan convention – then OK, but – ”

Spike sighed. He hadn’t a single bloody idea what the hell the American girl was talking about, and he no longer trusted her as far as he could throw her, but getting out of the cage before Mrs Monster Maker came to collect him sounded like a very good idea. He grabbed hold of one of the bars the Slayer had been trying to move and as she pushed one way, he put all his strength into moving his.

Working together, the two forced the bars apart, a fraction a second until there was enough space for Spike to slide through, cursing as the iron rubbed against the cuts and bruises on his chest. He glared at Buffy and was about to speak when another agonising scream echoed through the walls, rising to a crescendo then abruptly stopping. Buffy knew what that meant. Another vamp had been staked. From the other cages around the room, hisses and growls sounded from vamps, their owners lying in the dark shadows.

Spike growled deep in his throat as he vamped out, then back again. “What the bloody hell’s going on, Slayer? That isn’t a vamp turning a soldier boy.”

“No, that’s the Walsh family fun time!”

“What?”

“They’re trying to find a way of putting electrical thingies inside vamps’ brains so they can control them.” She bit her lip, wondering what he would say if she told him one day one of the doctor’s children would have perfected the technique and Spike would be chipped, made harmless to humans.

“That’s sick!” Spike vamped out and turned with long strides towards the door that led through into the big laboratory.

“Wait! What are you doing?”

He turned and grinned at her but there was no warmth in his eyes. “What do you think, Slayer? I’m going to show those creeps exactly what it’s like, being turned. Hey, they might even enjoy the experience.”

“No! Spike, you can’t turn the Walshes.”

“Why not?” He raised an eyebrow at her and moved towards the door. “Who’s going to stop me? You? OK, if you’re that prissy about it, I’ll just kill the bastards.”

She stared at him, thoughts roaring through her mind. These Walshes had to be the parents of the Professor Walsh who would run the Initiative in Sunnydale. But she hadn’t been born yet, so Spike couldn’t kill her parents. If he did, then everything would change and he wouldn’t be chipped, wouldn’t get closer to the Scoobies, wouldn’t become – well, whatever it was he had become. But she couldn’t tell him any of that.

“Yes, me, I’ll stop you. I know what they’re doing is totally wrong, but you mustn’t kill them or turn them. There has to be another way to end these experiments. Believe me – trust me.”

“Trust you? I’d rather trust old Adolf!”

Buffy refused to let her eyes fill with tears. “OK, don’t trust me, but no matter what you think, we have to find another way.”

Spike glared at her; she was small, deceptively thin and even if she had released him, he still believed she’d betrayed him to the Germans: he couldn’t understand why he didn’t just push her aside, sweep through the door and kill everything in sight.

Suddenly he grinned and this time the warmth was back in his eyes. That was the trouble with being bloody English, he decided. You had to fight for the under-dog every time. And on this occasion, the Slayer was definitely that.

“So, Slayer, you and me against the mad doctors and a few hundred Nazis? Seems like good odds.” He tilted his head, his ears picking up a faint noise. “Right, now’s the time for your big plan, Buffy Summers. One of the poxy doctors is just about to walk through that door!”

The words were hardly out of Spike’s mouth before Buffy was there holding the door handle tight, pulling it towards her with all her strength. Spike raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, that’s really going to keep them out. Is this your big plan, Slayer? Doesn’t seem like a brilliant one to me.”

Someone was banging on the door now and Buffy could hear a muffled voice calling, “Hey, open up. Whoever’s in there – open this door at once!” The command was repeated in German.

Spike yawned and wandered down the room, rattling his fingers along the bars of one of the cages. From the shadowy depths, something hissed words at him in a language Buffy didn’t recognise. “Come on, Slayer, I know something about these guys and what they’re doing in Sauerkraut Land. You’re never going to stop them unless you kill them – and – ”

Buffy struggled to turn and look at him without letting the door open. “You know about them? How?”

Spike shrugged. “Long story. Spend my whole life avoiding being captured by people wanting to kill me and my kind. I’ll tell you one thing – you’re not going to stop this sodding doctor spreading the word about his work. They’ve tried sending the information to the States already.”

His eyes shadowed as he remembered a submarine, Liam, and afterwards when for the first time he’d stopped to think about the War and whose side he was on. Not that he was on any bloody side, of course. They all wanted to kill him, so were all just meals waiting to be eaten as far as he was concerned. And that reminded him of just how hungry he was. That was the American doxy’s fault, too. If she’d let him get at the doctors, he could feed to his dead heart’s content.

“You need another plan, Slayer and time to think of it!” Swiftly, Spike crossed the room, dragged a heavy metal table towards Buffy and tipped it over on its end so it jammed against the door. “There! That should hold them for a while. Think fast, Slayer, we need another way out of here.”

Buffy stared round the room, her mind racing. The cages that housed vampires and demons stretched away down one side. There were no doors and obviously no windows; they were too far underground. “Perhaps you can get back in your cage and I’ll pretend the door just got stuck. I’ll try and talk my way out and come back for you later.”

“Perhaps you can go somewhere and have another pretty dream! Unless you think you can force me inside and then get the bars straightened out all by yourself?”

“Spike – you’re not helping.”

“Not helping? Bloody hell, Slayer, I’m saving your bacon here. And playing by your rules. I’m telling you, once we get out of here, I’m going to give my plan a go, whether you like it or not.” He waved a hand at the cages. “Demons, vamps – all waiting to get out of here. I’m going to have fun, Slayer. Not that I think you know the meaning of the word. But I do. I’m going to be a General – might even get me a nice uniform, with medals and braid.”

Buffy glared at him. The thought of Spike at the head of a vampire army made her blood run cold. If he had been “her” Spike, chipped and unable to kill humans, then maybe it would have been different. But this vamp! She had no clear idea of why he was even still in France. Why hadn’t he gone off to find Drusilla? He had no allegiance or loyalty to her – not like “her” Spike. Was this his scheme all along? The reason he hadn’t eaten his half of the charm to wipe his memory - to release the vamps and lead them on a rampage through Europe?

Spike leaned against a cage and rattled the bars of it again with his fingernail, ignoring the hisses from within the rank depths.  
“So – no way out – your doctor friends the other side of the door and me and several very pissed off demons and vamps this side. Anyone want to use the word ‘trapped’?”

Inside Buffy’s jacket pocket, Henry, the toad belonging to Valerie, Witch in Residence to the Watcher’s Council, woke up again. Henry was tired – tired of travelling, tired of being underground in the dark, tired of the rough blue material he’d been lying on. He was also very hungry: he’d tried his sticky tongue on the tough purple and black sweet that lived with him in the pocket, but hadn’t made much impression. He also felt a little guilty because he could sense the magic coming off it in waves. Henry had been toad to many witches and knew that interfering with charms was a bad thing to do.

But he wanted food – cool grass and the flying, buzzing, crawling things that tasted so good. As the people he was with didn’t seem to be providing these for him, he forced himself upwards and half leapt, half fell onto the floor.

“Henry!” Buffy swooped to catch the toad but Spike was faster, his hand tightening on her arm.

“Leave him, Slayer.”

Buffy pulled herself free, irritated by the surge of feeling that rushed through her body at his touch. “If he gets into one of those cages – ”

Spike cursed violently and threw himself at the toad who’d vanished between two cages, neatly avoiding the vampire’s outstretched hand and two long tentacles that swooped out from between the bars above him.

“Bloody animal!” Spike tugged at the cages, hearing the screech of nails as they were dragged from the stone walls. “Why the hell did you need to bring him with you?”

“Valerie insisted.” Buffy glanced back in desperation to where the door to the other laboratory was now being hammered at by more than the fists of the two doctors. They had obviously called in the guards and even as she looked, an ominous bulge appeared in the thin metal above the lock. Buffy groaned; once the German soldiers had the door open, there would be little she could do. She was quite certain that there was no excuse she could make up to account for having released a dangerous vampire from his cage!

Suddenly she realised they did have one means of escape. “Spike – eat the charm!” she said as he hurled another cage to the floor and something darkly orange began to squeeze between the bars.

“What?”

“I can’t get captured here in Germany. They’ll shoot me as a spy. Eat the charm. Send me back to my time and then save yourself.”

Spike turned, his eyes alight with mischievous delight, his bad mood evaporating at the thought of a fight. “Wouldn’t you fancy me in a posh uniform, Slayer?”

Buffy glanced again at the laboratory door. “Spike!” she hissed, wondering why she couldn’t just stake him and be done with it. He had to be the most aggravating man she’d ever met. “There isn’t time for your games. They’ve got guns. They’re going to shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Eat the charm.”

“Or we can follow Henry!” Spike grinned at her and pulled aside the last cage, the bars bending with the power of his grasp. As a vamp forced his way out with a growl, Spike reached out and pulled Buffy to his side, pointing behind the row of cages.  
At floor level, a large dark oblong broke the grey stone wall of the chateau’s cellar. Buffy raced across to it and peered inside.

Henry was sitting complacently on a wooden shelf, gazing up at the dark chimney-like space above his head. Old pulley ropes on each side of the platform gave Buffy the information she needed. “It’s a dumbwaiter! They must have used it in the olden days to bring wine and beer and things down to the cellars.”

Spike stared at the door at the far end of the room. The metal around the lock was tearing now. The shouts from the other laboratory were getting louder. “Right – in you go, Slayer.”

Buffy started to protest, then realised there was nowhere else to go. Picking up a protesting Henry, she put him back in her pocket and stepped onto the platform. It was surprisingly large; this hadn’t been built to move food conveniently from one part of the chateau to another – no, she had the feeling that bodies of torture victims had been carried up and down from the dungeons on this thing.

Suddenly there was a tremendous crash and she realised the guards had finally broken through the door. “Spike!” she yelled, just as he came flying through the opening, his arms wrapping round her to keep himself upright. Behind him it sounded as if all Hell had broken loose – screaming, growling, shots being fired - “What were you doing– ?”

“Letting the guards meet their vampire prisoners face to face,” he murmured in her ear as he reached up and pulled hard on the pulley ropes on either side. Buffy struggled to keep her balance as the walls of the shaft closed in around them; the only way she could was to put her arms round Spike’s waist and hold on.

Slowly, jerking and shuddering, the old contraption rumbled into life and the light from the cellar room vanished beneath their feet. Total darkness surrounded them. Buffy was about to speak when Spike stopped tugging on the ropes and pulled her even closer so they stood on the middle of the platform.

“What - ? ”

“Don’t make a sound, Slayer,” came the whisper in her ear. “We’re level with the guardroom; the Bosch are there; I can hear them talking. We can’t move until they leave - they’ll hear the pulley.”

The silence and dark closed round them like a velvet cloak. Buffy could feel the hardness of his chest pressing against her breasts, his belt buckle digging against her waist. She caught her breath as the hardness of his thighs rubbed against the muscles in her own legs. And she could imagine, dream, desire – she was back home in Sunnydale, in a dark, ruined house. His legs were about to push hers apart, his hard hands would explore every inch of her body in a way that was beyond sex, beyond possession. It was closing a circle, key fitting lock, an end to one journey and the beginning of another.

God, how she missed him, missed what he made her feel, the sensations that he alone could conjure from her body. And even as the trembling grew stronger and stronger, she knew that what she missed wasn’t just the sex – it was the man himself – the friend, the enemy, companion, lover, warrior.

Now, in this complete darkness, her hands tangled in his hair, and there was a roaring in her ears as she raised her face just a little to where Buffy knew his lips would be waiting and with a whimper that died before it began, she let the hunger take over.

William the Bloody hadn’t meant to kiss the Slayer again. Well, he was bloody well certain he’d never meant to kiss her ever – let alone do anything else to her. As the dark surrounded them, he could still see the faint outline of her face as the scent from her body swamped his brain. It was a charm, magic – that was what it had been before when they were hiding in the farm cart, he told himself desperately as his treacherous body began to react to the softness of her breasts against his chest. He tried to bring Dru’s face into his mind, concentrate on dark eyes, cold lips, icy body.

But then the Slayer’s warmth turned his legs to jelly, strong hands tangled in his hair and as he bent his head, he found a hot mouth ready and waiting for him to plunder.


	17. Run now, Think later

We will remember them…  
By Lilachigh

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter 17

Run Now, Think Later

 

In the basement of the Watchers’ Council in London, the Witch in Residence, Dorcas Twigg sighed heavily and tapped her finger against the glass globe in front of her. “Rupert, please stop breathing so heavily. I can see nothing when the glass is all misty!”

The man leaning over her shoulder winced and took a small step backwards. “Sorry! But Dorcas, she should be back. Buffy’s been gone for four days in our time. I was told only two days would pass before she returned. It’s double that now!”

Dorcas flicked a long mauve scarf back over her shoulder and leaning forward, peered earnestly into the glass. She hated using this clichéd way of summoning the past; it wasn’t accurate and made her feel like a fortune-teller in a fun-fair. But people like Rupert seemed to think it was a sign that she was working, rather than watching her sit, stroking Flanagan’s scaly head and letting her powers take her where she wanted to go.

“Time lines are never easy to read. At the moment it seems as if all is well, that the Slayer has either succeeded in her mission or is about to. I think there would be much more disruption in the evidence if she’d failed in some way.”

“Then why isn’t she home? You said the charm had been sent and received. So what did Buffy do then? Why didn’t she eat it and come home? Can’t you contact that witch again and ask her? Aren’t there records – diaries – what about the Watchers’ records for 1943?” Giles tried to keep his voice steady, but the long stream of agitated questions showed how the worry was beginning to grow and grow.

He’d already had to deal with an irritated Willow on the phone, wanting to know how long Buffy was going to be away on Watcher business. He was booked on a flight back to the States that night, determined to be on hand in case he was needed when his Slayer finally returned.

Dorcas sighed again and hushed Flanagan who was croaking in a way she was sure he didn’t mean to sound rude – but it did. “There was a war on, Rupert, dear boy. The records were scattered throughout the country to keep them safe from the Blitz. Most of them vanished without trace. You know that Quentin discovered a Slayer had to be sent back to 1943 – because a Slayer had been sent back! - from the odd notes someone had left that were found quite recently in Rochester. And sadly I’ve used up all my powers for a while to contact 1943 directly through the globe. I can only look and try to make sense of the time lines.”

“So what is she doing? Is she still alive?”

The witch sat up as the light faded from the glass ball. Wearily she rubbed her eyes then winced. The raw garlic she’d chopped up that morning – weirdly, Flanagan seemed to enjoy it – stung and she blinked away the tears.

“Yes – well, I think so. There’s certainly a lot of emotional energy being sent out from that time, but that’s probably due to the War. Thousands of people were dying and fighting. Finding a trace of one girl and a vampire isn’t easy.”

She could say no more, but after Rupert Giles had left, his frown deepening by the second, Dorcas held out her hand and stared down at Flanagan as he settled in her palm, burping gently.

“Something isn’t right, is it? I do wish you could talk, Flan! You could tell me, couldn’t you? Is it the charm? Didn’t I make it strong enough to bring her back? Is it the vampire who’s the trouble? Oh, I wish some of my predecessors’ records still existed.”

Suddenly an idea hit her and dropping an irritated toad onto her desk, she began to pull ancient books off the shelves, throwing them carelessly onto the floor as she hunted for one entry she knew she had seen at some time. And there it was! The charm she had made so carefully and sent back in time to 1943 worked perfectly well in returning one person to their own time and wiping their memory as it did so. But, if for some reason, the charm was shared, then physical contact had to exist between the two people involved and if even the slightest part of the charm was lost, then its power to wipe memories completely was diluted.

“But that can’t have happened,” Dorcas muttered. “Why should the charm have been diluted, even if it was used by two people?”

Flanagan, who didn’t do guilt, licked his lips reminiscently. The purple and black charm that he’d been forced to sit on for many hours in the Slayer’s pocket when he’d been called Henry, had tasted too sweet. He’d only had a few small licks to sustain him on the journey. He dismissed it from his mind and wondered when lunch would arrive.

Dorcas sat gloomily considering the myriad problems of trying to influence the past, wondering exactly what Buffy Summers was doing at that very moment and whether it would or could have any bearing on the future of the world…..

 

Darkness – utter darkness - as if every gleam of light in the world had been destroyed. The doctors and their dreadful experiments, the uncaged demons and vampires now free to roam and feed, everything faded to nothing. The hands holding Buffy, the icy lips on her mouth were the only real things in the world. If Spike took them away, then she knew she would be lost, she would fall down, down, down, through the dark into loss, loneliness, despair.

Spike felt her fingers tangle in his hair, pulling it, twisting his head to get his kiss even deeper. Her mouth was burning against his and he was aware of a hunger beginning to grow in him that he had never felt before. He couldn’t break away, didn’t want to break away, but he had to because if he didn’t he would fall down and down and down and be lost forever….as his fingers touched hot skin and he couldn’t stop the moan echoing inside his chest….

Time stopped - she was warm and safe and happy, once more she was in heaven and this time no one was going to pull her out, back to reality, back to a world where –

Suddenly, from a long way beneath them, a bright flash of light threw dancing shadows up the shaft of the dumb-waiter and the distant sound of shouting echoed up towards them.

Vampire senses for survival kicked in, bringing Spike spiralling back to the real world. “Oh sod! Some bugger’s found us.”

The harsh words broke Buffy out of her dream and the heat of her body turned her damp t-shirt to ice. This was no heaven; they were trapped inside a cold stone shaft in the middle of a French chateau with the German guardroom only inches away on the other side of the dumbwaiter shutters. Below them the sounds of a battle raged – screams and shots fired as the guards tried to cope with the demons and vampires Spike had freed.

And it wasn’t her Spike kissing her, it was a deadly vampire who was obviously just using her because – well because that was what men did when given the chance! They kissed you and left you and - ruthlessly she thrust the thoughts away. She wanted this vampire to leave her. She was leaving him and the sooner the better.

“Pull the ropes. Send us further up. There must be an exit into another room,” she snapped, knowing that silence was no longer an option.

Spike could hear some of the shouted orders coming from the basement area. “Too late. They’ll start firing up the shaft any second now, Slayer. No time to get higher. We bail out here!”

“No – wait – you can’t ! ”

But it was too late. Spike let go of her, half turned in the small space and kicked at the wooden shutters covering the dumb-waiter opening into the German guard-room. With a roar, he flung himself through the splinters, leaping down onto the floor in full vamp face, fangs glistening, the blood lust burning in his yellow eyes.

The young German soldiers in the room were relaxing, laughing, joking, jackets off, eating a meal when Hell on earth suddenly appeared amongst them. Two died almost immediately, their necks broken before they could leave their chairs. The rest headed for the door in a terrified yelling mob except for one who turned to fight, reaching for his rifle, then he tripped. Spike pounced like a great cat.

Buffy followed through the broken slats then grabbed at Spike’s arm as his fangs dug deeply into a young man’s throat and he began to feed.

“Spike! Stop! William – please. Spike!” Using all her strength she hurled him off the body and across the room. He crashed into a bookcase and slid to the floor, half dazed, his face switching back to human, his expression suddenly bewildered and – although it was stupid to think it – upset.

“Slayer?”

“No feeding! Oh God, you’ve killed them. You didn’t need to do that. They’re only kids. Why – Jeez, Spike. Get up! We’ve got to get out of here. But I’m telling you, if you try feeding on anyone again, I will stake you where you stand.”

Tightlipped, so angry with herself that she could hardly think, she raced for the door. The soldiers had vanished and across the wide expanse of the gloomy entrance hall she could see the open front door of the chateau and outside the dusk of a lovely evening in France. Her feet echoed on the stone slabs as she ran – Fool ! – Vampire! – Moron! – Vampire! – Not Spike – Is Spike - Not Spike – Idiot! Fool! - Jerk! – Vampire!

Buffy could hear Spike’s boots thudding across the hall behind her. She didn’t know whether to be pleased or sorry that he was following her. Whatever was happening between them was so wrong – he was evil! A plain, unchipped, evil, killing machine. And time and again she forgot that. Time and again he only had to touch her, and the years between vanished in a blink.

‘I’m a pathetic excuse for a Slayer,’ she thought as she reached the door and years of training took over, her emotions were banished once more and she stared round, assessing the danger outside. ‘Sent back all this way just to mess up big time. I can just imagine what Giles would say if he knew.’

Bitch! – Bitch! – Bitch! – Bitch! – Bitch! – Spike’s boots beat out one word as he loped across the great hallway. Trust a Slayer to come on all hot and willing one moment, then threaten to stake him just because a couple of Germans got killed and he was having the first decent meal he’d had for days. Now they were on the run again – and he was fed up. He wanted to fight – anyone, anywhere, vamp, demon, Bosch, Brit, Yank, Frog, even a bloody Aussie if he could find one!

As she peered out of the doorway, he stood sullenly behind her, his gaze tight on the curve of the slender white neck he could see under her stupid blonde hair that was tied back, looking like the unbrushed tail on a pony.

He lifted his head as the noise from behind them grew louder. It sounded as if the soldiers had regrouped and he was certain they would be out for revenge. “Once you’ve finished admiring the view, it might be a good idea to get your arse moving, Slayer. I can outrun most things and the odd bullet won’t harm me, but your soft Yankee skin might look a bit odd with holes in it.”

Buffy hesitated; she glanced over her shoulder but the hall remained empty, although shadows were moving at the far end but the were too far away to tell if they were human or demon.

She knew he was right, but once they left the chateau any chance she might have had to accomplish something of her mission would be lost forever. “What’s happened to the demons and vamps you released in the laboratory? Are they all dead or have I got to deal with them as well?”

Spike shrugged. “Reckon the guards took out some of them, but they were strong, fit – I expect some have managed to escape. You can ‘deal’ with them, if you want to, Slayer, but seems like a waste of time and effort to me.”

“I need time to think,” she muttered. “Dr. Walsh’s father is returning from Berlin tomorrow, so he said. That’s the only chance I’ve got now of stopping these experiments.”

Spike jerked his head impatiently, grabbed her hand and half pulled, half lifted her down the long flight of stone steps that led down to the driveway. “Run now, think later, Slayer. Always been my policy. Now move it, fast!”

And bending low, they sped across the grass as bullets spat at them and then, just as they reached the shelter of the woods, Buffy gasped as a stinging pain tore through her shoulder and she was sent tumbling over and over onto the muddy ground.

……..

Spike was licking her neck! Buffy smiled as she drifted up from the dark of sleep: to be fair, there were very few parts of her body he hadn’t licked but he always returned to the back of her neck, running his tongue down across her shoulder and up again, down and up – she loved the sensation – GEEZ!

The soft dark vanished as her eyes opened, she could feel pain across her shoulder, something hot running down her back and Spike’s tongue lapping at –

“Are you drinking my blood?” It was less of a question than a squealed shriek. She tried to turn over, but a hand whipped down across her mouth and the familiar weight of his body covered her own.

“No noise, Slayer! Not unless you want every vamp and demon in these woods to hone in on you. You’re bleeding like the proverbial stuck pig and they’ll smell it. Anyway, I’m hungry and seeing as how I was the one who had to carry you for miles, I reckon it’s the least you can do for me.”

Buffy struggled to stay still. She was confused; Spike’s voice sounded odd and not just because he had a mouthful of Slayer blood. Suddenly her brain jolted into action and she gasped as she realised that the breasts pushing against the soft grass underneath her body, had no bra, T-shirt or jacket across them! She was naked to the waist.

“What the hell’s happened?” she mumbled through his hand. “OK, I won’t shout. Let me move.” She bucked herself upwards, wincing as pain shot through her, but her strength was still enough to send Spike sliding to one side.

He lay flat on his back, wiping blood from his lips; in the dim evening light that was flickering through the trees, Buffy could see he was grinning. “You were shot, Slayer. I reckon you haven’t had that much experience of guns, have you, Yankee Girl? I knew you couldn’t outrun a bullet. It creased across the top of your shoulder and along the back of your neck. It’s not a deep wound but it’s provided lots of lovely gore.” He sighed. “I feel much better now.”

Buffy sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. A few feet away she could see the bloody remains of her jacket and T-shirt. Something glittered and she felt a sigh of relief as she realised Henry was sitting on top of the pile, blinking indignantly at her.

“You almost squashed Toadie when you fell over,” Spike commented, sitting up and seeing where she was looking. “He wasn’t best pleased. Let me look at that wound again.”

Buffy flinched away automatically as he moved behind her and heard the vampire sigh. “Slayer – if I’d wanted to, I could have drained you of every ounce or turned you or just finished you off! I would have done my second Slayer. You’ve no idea how that would have helped my reputation. Liam would be furious. And if it hadn’t been for the overwhelming desire to forget all about this little jaunt - which I can’t do unless we both eat the charm - I’d have had myself a really, really good day!”

Spike heard his words drop into the silence and even to him they sounded false, a carefully constructed, couldn’t care less front to hide the fact that he was – scared. He had to face it – oh, he wasn’t afraid of the Slayer herself; he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been frightened of anyone, but he was terrified of the way she made him feel.

All these years, since Dru turned him, his life had been painted in black, deep red, purple, black and more black. A great wall of darkness surrounded him and he’d been happy to live like that, swimming in the glory of death and destruction. But now – why had he picked up the Slayer when she fell? It didn’t make sense – she was his deadly enemy, and OK, he needed her to eat the charm so he could forget, but he knew that thought hadn’t even entered his head when she’d gone tumbling to the ground.

He’d swung her into his arms, frightened that she was dead, which was bloody stupid, and terrified because a tiny golden chink had appeared in his darkness and he didn’t know how to stop it from spreading. Words trickled into his mind and for a second he was William again, sitting at a desk in school, ink staining his fingers, a copy of Shakespeare open in front of him, hearing the teacher’s voice quoting from The Merchant of Venice, “How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.”

“Does it hurt?” he asked now, trying to sound off-hand, as if he’d enjoy knowing it did.

Buffy shrugged, then winced as pain lanced across her neck. “A bit, but it won’t last. You must know about Slayer healing, Spike?”

“Slayers, vampires, I reckon we’re all cut out of the same cloth,” he muttered. “We need to clean it, Slayer. I can see dirt in the wound – unless you want me to lick it again.”

Buffy didn’t reply; she inspected her clothes, gave up her top as ruined, then tipped Henry off her denim jacket and pulled it on, her fingers stupidly shaking as she did up the buttons. The tear across the back was heavily stained with blood, but at least the front covered her. “A thousand times no. It’ll be OK. Listen, how many demons escaped from the chateau?”

Spike shrugged. “No idea. Some for sure. They’ll be roaming round the woods with German patrols trying to catch them. Bloody farce. Told you, Slayer, they’d make a good army if organised.”

Buffy got to her feet, wincing as the denim rubbed her neck and shoulder. “In your dreams, Spike. We still need to stop those doctors. Professor Walsh should have returned from Berlin by now.”

Spike stared at her. “Have you been eating stupid pills, Slayer? We trashed his laboratory, helped his guinea-pigs escape and, for all we know, got his son and daughter-in-law slaughtered. Don’t think he’s going to be much of a threat.”

Buffy bit her lip. How could she tell him that either Professor or Doctor Walsh fathered a child in the future who became the woman determined to rid the world of monsters by making them unable to kill. The dim woods spun round her for a second and she shut her eyes to banish the dizziness. She was so certain this was why she’d been sent back – to stop the infant Initiative from experimenting here in France. Was she wrong? Had the whole stupid escapade been Quentin Travers’ attempt to get rid of her once and for all?

Well, he’d failed in that, but then she’d failed, too. She’d found a mission and nothing she’d done had proved successful. She was tired, dirty, hungry and breaking every Slayer rule in the book, letting Spike feed off her blood, turning her back on a vampire. Although, with a certainty she didn’t understand, she knew this vamp would never harm her. She rubbed a grubby hand across her eyes as lights flickered across her vision and blinked out at the darkening woods. She blinked again – “Spike – I can see lights over there. Windows, a building.”

Spike looked puzzled. “Of course you can. It’s the chateau.”

“What?”

“Why not shriek a little louder, Slayer? I really don’t want to spend all night long defending your dubious honour and life from roaming vamps.”

“But we were running away from the chateau!”

“You’ve obviously never been hunted by a pack of dogs or men with large pitchforks and blood lust in their eyes! The safest place to be is where they least expect you. In our case, the sodding chateau. I carried you round in a circle and we’re in the woods on the far side from the main entrance.” He paused, then went on, “I didn’t want to go too far. We’re supposed to eat the rotten charm near here, aren’t we?”

Buffy nodded, then wished she hadn’t as pain lanced across her neck again. She wished the healing process would hurry up and start. The bullet graze burnt like fire and her head ached as well. She dug around inside her pocket and pulled out her half of the black and purple striped candy. It was covered with fluff and looked decidedly unappetising. But it would take her home. All this would vanish from her mind – the unchipped Spike, Joy, baby Aurora, Colonel Monroe, Valerie the witch, even Henry – Henry!”

“How’s Henry going to get home?”

Buffy slipped the charm back into her pocket as they turned to stare at the toad who stared back indignantly, his eyes unblinking.

“Hop?” Spike said hopefully.

“Not helping! We can’t just – go – and leave him in the middle of the woods in France. He’ll get – I don’t know, eaten by a bear or something.”

Spike sighed. Bloody colonials – their lack of knowledge about Europe was nothing short of disgusting. “They don’t have bears in France, Slayer!” He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “At least, I don’t think they do.”

Buffy rubbed her hand across her forehead; she was so hot. “Bears, wolves, big birds, anything will make a meal of a toad.”

Henry – who had lived though more wars, apocalypses and centuries than they would ever know – couldn’t quite understand why they were making such a fuss. He would have sniffed in disdain if he could have sniffed. The human and the vampire had far more important things to deal with, except they didn’t seem to have noticed yet.

“Carry him forward to your own time, then,” Spike said. “He doesn’t weigh much. Can’t see that the charm will damage him. I’d offer, but I don’t think my Dru would take to him. She’d either eat him or make him wear one of her doll’s bonnets.”

“Silly Dru…” Buffy muttered. “ She can’t have Herrnay. Hate her. Be glad when she thumps you, mumps you, dumps you – ”

Spike glared at her. “Dumps me – what the hell are you talking about? Does that mean what I think it means? Dru loves me. We’ll be together for ever, Slayer; that I can promise you.” He shook himself. He was tired of talking; he wanted this finished, needed to get back to his old bad ways, find Dru, enjoy the mayhem of a world at war. He was the Big Bad of all Europe. It was about time he started acting like it.

Fishing his half of the charm out of his pocket, he tossed it in the air. “Right – I’m ready when you are, Slayer. Let’s eat these sodding things and get back to our normal lives.” He leered at her – “And I promise I’ll let your Mum thump me on the head when we next meet!”

Buffy sank onto her knees. She was so hot. “Dumps, thumps, mumps, bumps,” she muttered. “Can’t think of the right word. Slumps, pumps, dumps, jumps – jeez, my head hurts so much.”

“Slayer!” Spike was at her side, his cold hand sliding across her forehead. “Bloody hell, you’re burning up, Buffy.”

With an effort, she forced herself upright. The last thing she wanted was to have Spike looking after her again. OK, she’d been shot; it wasn’t the worse thing ever to happen to her. Hey, she’d died twice! A stupid wound from a dumb German bullet was nothing. “It’s just the Slayer healing,” she lied, focusing her eyes and turning away from the vampire. “I’m perfectly OK.”

Spike pulled her round to face him. “Don’t lie! How many fingers am I holding up?” he snarled.

Buffy swayed on her feet, fighting to see through the mists that were clouding her eyes. “Two and that’s a very rude gesture.”

“Stupid bint. Not when the palm’s turned outwards; then it means victory,” Spike muttered and cursed fluently, stepping forward to catch her as the Slayer’s eyes closed and she collapsed into his arms.

A muddy black boot thudded against the door of a small shed on the far side of the chateau grounds. Wood splintered as the lock gave and Spike strode inside, carrying Buffy in his arms. It was pitch dark inside but he could see and smell it was where the chateau groundsmen kept their gardening tools. A mowing machine, scythes, spades, secateurs, trowels and sacks of compost stood along one wooden wall.

Spike half dropped, half placed Buffy on the ground and stood looking down at her. The poison from the wound was obviously battling with the Slayer’s healing powers. Her face was flushed and she tossed back and forwards, as if desperate to wake up. He ran a hand through his ragged brown curls and vamped out. Now what? Did he leave her here? Yes, of course he could. He’d done his best. Got her under cover. That was far more than she could ever expect of him. He’d put a couple of miles between them, eat the charm and then all this would be forgotten. When she woke up –

If she woke up, a voice in his head added - when she woke up, he forced his mind to suffocate the other words - she’d eat her charm and then just vanish and all this poxy magic rubbish would be at an end. There was no way he wanted to be here when the German patrols came back to the chateau or when the French workmen found the broken door of the shed in the morning. He had had enough!

Suddenly he knelt and touched her face; her skin almost burnt his hand. The fever was raging and he knew he had to break it or she wouldn’t survive the night.

Buffy was in the crypt – sprawled out on her stomach on Spike’s bed, her body hot and aching from what she’d been doing for the past couple of hours. A wonderful lassitude was spreading through her limbs; every muscle felt sore but in a good way and Spike was doing what she liked best after sex – rubbing an ice-cube along the back of her neck. Oh god, that was so good; how did he know she liked that so much?

She stretched her limbs, feeling the tingle that really good sex left behind in her nerves, luxuriating in the icy touch on her skin – knowing that she would soon have to wake up completely, get dressed and run away, back to work, back to Dawn, back to the banality of her life – but not yet, for a few minutes more, she would just enjoy what he was doing….

And with a face creased with worry, Spike rubbed the ice cubes he had stolen from the chateau kitchen up and down across the fever stricken Slayer’s neck……


	18. Fading Fast

We will remember them…  
By Lilachigh

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Chapter 18: Fading Fast

 

“We missed the bed again!” Buffy murmured dreamily, wondering why Spike’s crypt was so hot this evening. The floor was hard under her body and her head was swimming muzzily round and round and round… “That was great, Spike, but I’ve got to go…Dawn - ”

“You’re not going anywhere, Slayer. And what bed? We’re in France – remember? You’re sick.”

“So not sick! Just tired. And so hot. Hey, Spike, I think perhaps the Hellmouth is right under your crypt! Wouldn’t that be great? Geez – convenient much.”

“I haven’t got a crypt. We’re in a shed, in France. You’re babbling, Slayer.” His face loomed over hers and a trickle of icy water ran across her forehead.

Buffy gazed up at him and smiled. “What have you done to your hair? You’ve dyed it brown. It’s all curly!”

“It’s always been like this, Slayer. You’re remembering – thinking about – sod it, how can you remember something that hasn’t happened yet? Listen, just relax. You need to get better fast.”

Two arms that, for all her weakness, were still strong, reached up and twined round his neck, pulling him down to lie beside her. “I am better! Look, I’m all happy. You make me feel – I don’t want to go home yet. Want to feel – more happy!”

Buffy twisted her fingers into the brown curls she disliked so much and groaned as his kiss deepened and the roughness of his clothes rubbed against her naked flesh. Heat surged through her as the familiar feeling of homecoming invaded her body.

Greedily, Spike ran his hands over her breasts, re-learning every curve, every contour. Then as she began to moan, the full horror of what he was doing again – making love to a Slayer! - came crashing through the haze this girl created in his mind and he reached up and pulled her hands apart and away from him.

“You’re sick, Slayer. A bullet creased your back. You’ve got a fever. Stop it! Just – god, don’t look at me like that. Don’t look so bloody hurt. You know I’d – bloody hell - is this what we do in the future? We’re lovers? No – oh god, no!”

He scrabbled away across the shed floor and sat, gasping for the breath he did not need, his back against the wooden wall, his head in his hands, fingers following the trails she had made across his skull.  
He’d accepted that in some dim and distant future they knew each other – colleagues, wasn’t that what she’d told him? He hadn’t given it too much thought; magic was too complicated to worry about – it was too weird a concept to grasp, but he’d sort of thought he probably fought things, killed things for her. He’d been more intrigued by his having blond hair and that Dru was around; that they were both still alive sixty years hence. But not this – not that he and the Slayer were lovers! It was against everything that being a vampire was about – it was against nature itself.

But when he’d pushed her away just now, the look on her face had bewildered him. How could his actions possibly hurt her that much? She couldn’t have real feelings for him: that was impossible, so why had she looked as if his act of rejection had been worse than killing her?

A groan brought his head up with a jerk; the Slayer was tossing and turning again as the fever racked her body. Spike crawled across the floor and stared down at her. She was unconscious, thank god, but when would the rotten Slayer healing kick in? All vamps knew about that, but at the moment she was behaving as if her body had no defences at all against the poison in her blood.

The fever needed to be broken, but the ice he’d stolen from the chateau kitchen had melted away. Spike glanced across the shed at the door: through the chinks in the wood, especially where he’d smashed the lock, sunlight was beaming in. He had to be careful to avoid those brilliant, deadly rays. Where was some sodding rain when you needed it or a nice heavy blanket….the only thing he could see that might be useful was a filthy sack, filled with rotting compost….

She was awake! Suddenly, eyes open, searching the dark, every nerve ending on Slayer alert, every instinct working overtime to check for danger. Buffy shivered; she was cold but in some odd way knew that was good. The dreadful fever she’d been vaguely aware of had gone – and as her eyes got used to the dim light in the shed, she realised so had Spike.

She pulled on her denim jacket that had been pushed under her head as some sort of pillow, wincing as it rubbed the wound across her back, wrinkling her nose at the smell; it reeked of sweat and dirt but being half naked was not an option. An indignant croak made her jump, then she realised Henry had been asleep on the sleeve. “How did you get here?” she muttered, scooping him up and putting him back in her pocket.

Henry, who’d spent a long, hot day hopping towards the shed from where he’d been ignominiously left behind in the woods, sighed. He hated this pocket with a deep hatred but knew he had to stay with the Slayer.

Buffy stood up, wincing as her muscles protested; she swayed and braced herself against the shed wall, alarmed at how weak she felt. Geez, this was stupid! Even when Willow had brought her back from heaven and she’d clawed her way out of her coffin, she hadn’t felt this pathetic.

Suddenly an even colder trickle of doubt inched its way down her spine and she began to think back over the past few days. And knew she was right. Day by day, she’d felt weaker – oh, not in the way an ordinary person would feel, but she knew something had been happening to her Slayer strength. It was fading, vanishing…she felt if it was daylight, she would be able to hold her hand up to the sun – and it would be transparent, as if she was fading away.

“Perhaps that’s exactly what’s happening,” she muttered as she fumbled her way to the door and gingerly peered out. She reckoned she must have been out of things for a whole day because now evening dusk gave an eerie half-light to the chateau grounds. The building itself on the far side of the lawns and formal gardens was blackly outlined against a lavender and rose sky, the turrets and towers making it a fairy tale place.

It was weird to think that inside its walls a vile organisation had begun to try and control demons and vampires. She shuddered: elsewhere in Europe, right now, experiments were being carried out on human beings – things were being done that she didn’t even want to think about. And she could do nothing about it. She swayed again.

“Concentrate, Buffy,” she muttered. “You weren’t sent back to save them. It’s the Walsh laboratory you have to destroy. And, apparently, on your own. Spike’s obviously long gone – what a surprise!”

She shuddered, forcing herself to banish vague memories of heat and ice and a cold body against her fevered skin. 1943 Spike was a man and men left her. It was a fact of life she had accepted years ago. If she ever got home – ‘her’ Spike would probably do the same. Well, she wouldn’t let him; she’d do the walking away this time, then she couldn’t get hurt.

But – suddenly she realised she was thinking thoughts out of habit, pandering to the balm of ‘poor-Buffy’. How easy it was to slide down that path of self-pity. Her father, Angel, Riley, okay they’d gone for their own reasons and maybe she’d been in part to blame. So now, automatically, without stopping to consider what she actually felt, she told herself that every man would do the same - but she was wrong! She knew with a certainty that astounded her that Spike – this one and the man he was to become – would not leave her unless they were forced to.

She pulled the black and purple charm out of her pocket, ignoring Henry’s irritated croak as he was woken yet again. In the twilight she stared at it. The instructions had been very clear: she and Spike needed to be together for it to work, for her to return to her own time and for his memories to be wiped. Buffy sighed and slipped it back into her jacket. She was so tired, so bone weary that she didn’t think she cared if she got home or just disappeared here in France, faded away to nothing. Whatever magic had been used to send her here, she knew in her blood that its power was rapidly vanishing.

She retied the scrap of ribbon holding back her hair, almost glad of the tug against the skin on her temples as she pulled it tight. Pain was good, pain kept her alive, kept her mind firmly on the mission in hand – find Spike, destroy this part of the Initiative once and for all, then - home.

She made her way cautiously across the chateau gardens, slipping from bush to bush, tree to tree, watching out for patrolling guards. There was some activity over by a row of sheds; motors revving, people talking – she could hear the German words and wished she could understand them. No one saw her as she slid by in the shadows; she didn’t want to fight; these soldiers were not her enemy at the moment; the Walsh family were.

Silently she crept through round the vast outer walls of the building, heading for the steps on the far side that she knew led down to the cellars. She had to check to see if the Initiative laboratory had been completely destroyed when Spike released the demons and vamps, or if any of it still remained. If it did, then perhaps she could do something to slow it down, even if she couldn’t get rid of it completely. Surely even a small delay was a plus in this nightmare.

And all the time, an insistent trickle of thought kept beating inside her head – “If there’s no Initiative in the future, Spike won’t get chipped. He’ll be evil, able to kill, you’ll never get close to him, you’ll never – ” She slammed her mind shut on the words “love him”. Of course she didn’t, couldn’t, would never love Spike, in any time. But….she cared for him: even in this so different age, when he was rude and aggravating, she’d sensed a connection, a liking for his bravery, for whatever it was that made him incapable of giving up a fight even when retreat was the most sensible course of action.

And knowing that he would never turn away from a fight, especially if there was a free meal involved, where the heck was he? She’d kick him all the way back to England if he’d got himself captured again. He’d had no reason to leave the safety of the shed – unless he’d been driven by hunger. But he’d had some of her blood – OK, not a lot, but surely enough to satisfy him for a few more hours.

Grimly listing exactly what she would say when she caught up with him again, Buffy skirted round a vast buttress supporting the outer chateau wall and froze. Slowly, inch by inch, glad that the evening shadows were so dark, she stepped backwards until she was hidden by the buttress stonework. She’d reached the cellar steps faster than she’d thought. On the gravel drive outside, a large lorry was being loaded, German soldiers busy carrying boxes and cases up from the basement, packing them on board.

Even as she watched, young Dr Walsh and his wife appeared, obviously dressed for a journey and an older man was escorted round from the front of the Chateau by the German commandant, Oberst Visser.

Buffy stared – this must be Professor Walsh Snr. He didn’t look evil; he looked like an elderly American schoolteacher from back home, well-dressed, grey hair, glasses. So here was the man who’d started the Initiative. A traitor and a scientist who obviously saw nothing wrong in what he was unleashing on the world. She wondered bitterly if he was in contact with the other experimental laboratories all over Europe and realised she was shaking with a terrible mixture of futile rage and fatigue.

Obviously the lorry carrying the Walshes was about to leave. A soldier started the engine and just then a big black car swept round from the direction of the garages - and Buffy realised she was wrong - this was the Walshes’ transport.

“Have a safe journey, Professor,” Buffy heard Visser say, shaking the American’s hand. “Hopefully you will have no trouble in getting your cargo back to England and then on to America.”

The Professor replied; his voice was too quiet for Buffy to hear, but Visser nodded and continued, “Ah, yes. Private plane out of Paris. Hazardous, but I am sure you have contacts who will protect you all the way home.”

‘I bet he has,’ Buffy muttered under her breath. OK, now her mission was becoming clearer. The Walshes were all travelling in the one car. Some how she had to stop them from leaving Germany. She couldn’t kill them, but at least she could slow them down, destroy all those boxes of papers and experiments they were taking back to the States.

“And the vampire – you wish him to travel in the lorry?”

Buffy couldn’t believe what she had just heard. She felt her heart lurch and the trembling in her limbs increased. Two soldiers were dragging a familiar figure up the steps from the cells below. A bloodstained hood had been tied over his head, his hands and elbows were fastened behind his back and a length of chain linked his ankles.

As she watched, he was half lifted, half thrown into the back of the lorry and the guards clambered in after him. And even as Buffy stared, Oberst Visser was saluting, doors were slamming and the two vehicles began to drive away, down the drive.

She had learnt a long time ago that Slayer decisions are taken without conscious thought; a combination of instinct and training, Giles used to tell her, over and over again. All she knew was that if you stopped to think, you could die. You estimated your strength, your position, your enemy’s position, how your action would affect the mission – all in a split second.

There was a choice: her Slayer strength was fading fast and she knew she no longer had enough power to stop both vehicles. So she could delay the top people in the Initiative from reaching the States, destroy their papers and specimens - or save a stupid vamp who didn’t have the brains to keep out of the enemies’ clutches? Her mission was to stop the car, not the lorry.

She had sent Angel, whom she’d loved, to Hell to save the world. Spike’s life could not be more important.

Buffy started running…..

She sped across the chateau grounds, running away from the long gravel driveway, from the lorry carrying Spike and from the car with the Walsh family on board. The overwhelming desire was to run after them, but she knew she wasn’t strong enough; they had too great a head start. There was one chance – just one. At the end of the drive, a great ornamental iron gate shut off the rest of the world. Hopefully the two vehicles would have to stop there, wait for the guard to come out of his hut and unlock the gate to let them out. Unless the gate was already open…

No! – her breath tore at her throat – she wouldn’t consider that - she just needcd that luck, that extra few minutes to cut through the woods and reach the road in front of them.

From far behind her, she was aware of shouts, commands in German and the faint roar of a motorbike engine. She’d been seen! They were coming after her – but no bike would get through the thick woods – they would have to go out of the gate as well.

She bent low and forced herself to run even faster, knowing she was using up the last of her strength, but desperate to reach the shelter of the trees before the bullets started flying. But none came and she realised that Visser, the German commandant, was determined to take her alive and she didn’t think being a young American girl would keep her from a Nazi prison this time.

Trees at last – branches whipping against her face, brambles clutching at her legs as she struggled through thick undergrowth. Could she still hear the lorry? Had it stopped? Gasping, sobbing for breath, she forced her way through the final barrier of holly bushes just as the big black car came slowly along the road, gathering speed as it did, the lorry rumbling along in low gear behind it.

Buffy ignored the car: the Walshes could go to hell – it was Spike she needed - Spike she had to rescue. With a final leap – more of desperation than belief - she flung herself at the back of the lorry as it passed, one foot on the tailboard, hands scrabbling for a hold on the heavy canvas covering, aware of the roar of a motorbike thundering up the road behind her.

Then the canvas parted and she fell inside, the two guards leaping up, reaching for their weapons, but off balance, swaying precariously as they swung round a bend and down a hill, unprepared for the volley of blows and kicks that rained down upon them from a Slayer at the end of her mental and physical tether. Black uniforms – SS guards – not ordinary German soldiers. Spike had managed to get captured by the worst people possible.

One went down unconscious, the other came at Buffy, arms swinging, mouth open – she could smell the rank of his breath see the fury and terror in his eyes – she dodged, kicked his legs from under him and tipped him out of the lorry, hearing the screech of brakes as the bike swerved to avoid him as he hit the road.

The blare of a horn, a violent flashing of the bike’s headlight and the driver of the lorry finally realised something was wrong. It slowed to a stop as Buffy feverishly threw boxes of papers aside to get at the chained figure who, from the violent cursing she could hear coming from under the blood-stained hood covering his head, was at least alive.

“Hold still, you idiot! I’m trying to get you free.” Her breath caught in her chest; it was all taking too long! The chains were new; bright double padlocks fastened them round his wrists and ankles. At last, with a sob of despair, she broke the chain holding Spike’s arms behind his back and, with the last of her strength, snapped the bonds round his ankles.

“Get this friggin’ thing off my head!”

With a violent tug, the cord parted and Buffy pulled off the hood. Spike roared as the material that had been stuck to cuts on his face, opened them up again. “Careful! Stupid bint. That hurts.” Spike was in full vamp face, clawing the air, searching for prey.

Buffy hauled him to his feet. “One more word, Spike, just one and I’ll leave you here. Geez, I’m already wishing I hadn’t bothered finding you.”

Blue eyes gleamed briefly as he vamped back and grinned. “And nice to see you, too, Slayer! Thought we’d meet again. Feeling better, I see.”

He was lying; he didn’t think she looked better; in fact, he thought she looked bloody dreadful. Hair dull and lifeless, her skin pale, almost translucent, her eyes had sunk into her head and she seemed – he hunted for a word – frail.

And the odd thing was, even when he’d been captured, surprised by the squad of SS soldiers who’d arrived to escort the Walshes to Paris, beaten up and thrown into this lorry, he’d been certain that the Slayer would try to rescue him.

The SS had taken turns holding him upright whilst fists and feet thudded into his face and body, for no other reason than that they wanted to inflict pain. And they had. But through it all, he’d known – and the knowing had caused him more pain than the blows – that the Slayer would come for him. One day, when he wasn’t busy being hunted by the German army, Spike reckoned he’d have to sit and think about that. Why had he never doubted her? But now he was wondering what the effort had cost her.

Buffy stared at the boxes of papers and equipment stacked inside the lorry, but there was no time to investigate. “Quick! We need to get out of here.” But just then she heard shouting - in German and English. Obviously the Walshes car had stopped as well and the three scientists had walked back to see what the problem was with the lorry carrying their research projects.

“Come out! Whoever you are. Come out. You can’t get away. Come out or you’ll be shot!”

“Aus! Aus! Hande hoch!”

Spike raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like we’re trapped, pet.”

“Don’t call me pet,” Buffy answered automatically. She clenched her fists and turned to the canvas opening. “There can’t be that many of them. The Walshes don’t count. Probably just the two drivers and the soldier on the motorbike.”

Spike shrugged. “Good odds, Slayer. Except they’ve got guns. I’ll be fine, but you – ” he shrugged, “ - you didn’t do too well against the last bullet that hit you. I wouldn’t have got caught if you hadn’t developed some poxy fever.”

Buffy reached for the canvas opening, then hesitated. This fighting against guns was so alien. Slayers fought vampires, demons, and the powers of darkness, not men with guns. Was this how she died - again? Did she care? She almost felt the click inside her head - geez, she’d never thought she was the brightest at working out the whys and wherefores of Slayerdom, she left that to Giles and Willow – but surely she should have guessed earlier? It was blindingly obvious; she wasn’t here to rescue Joy or stop the Walshes from building the Initiative – she was here to save Spike’s life!

She had no idea why that should be important; but obviously it was. As a Slayer she was redundant, Faith was still alive. She had never believed that Quentin Travers would have gone to all this trouble just to get rid of her. No, there had to be a reason behind everything; it wasn’t saving Joy, it wasn’t stopping the Initiative, it could only be saving this particular vampire for whatever lay ahead of him in the future.

“Stay here!” she snapped at Spike. “Wait till they’ve captured me, then you can get away – find Dru – eat the charm – forget – ” She pulled the canvas covering back and stared out. It was almost dark now, trees were outlined sharply black against a star littered sky. The beam from the motor-bike’s headlight illuminated the group waiting for her – three soldiers in the black uniforms of the SS, pointing guns at the lorry and the Walsh family, standing together in huddle to one side, looking nervous and unhappy.

“OK! OK! Don’t shoot!” Buffy raised her hands above her head and was about to jump down when there was a roaring growl behind her and she was pushed violently in the back, ending up flat on her face on the road. As she rolled swiftly to one side, she heard the crack of a gun firing, saw Spike throw one of the guards into the ditch, then whirl to tackle another. But the butt of a gun clubbed down on the side of his head and he staggered, dazed for those vital seconds that could have meant victory.

Buffy leapt to her feet, but knew it was over. They’d lost; whatever Fate had in store for Spike would now never happen because he would soon be dead. To her amazement, she realised she was smiling; so she’d die again – a third time. Perhaps this time would be the last. At least she’d be in very good company.

Then, just as the third SS soldier raised his gun to shoot, there was a great Whoosh of noise and smoke and the whole canvas covering of the lorry burst into flame. In that second, the soldier’s attention was distracted and Buffy’s flying kick sent the gun spinning away into the dark woods.

The Walshes ran, yelling, towards the lorry. “Save the papers!” the Professor was shouting. “The research. Save the research!”

Buffy pushed past them; if they wanted to risk their lives in that inferno, they were welcome. She dodged the SS guard who was now rushing towards her, fists flailing: her hand caught him full on the mouth and she felt a tooth break. But now she realised just how dreadfully weak she was: she was slow, her reaction time down to zero. Turn – punch – swing – too slow, too soft. The man was bigger, stronger and realised she could be beaten. And to make things worse, Spike had vanished from the fight and the second guard was advancing towards her, cutting off her retreat.

“Slayer!” A deep growl from an engine and Spike, his face painted red and gold from the light of the flames, came roaring up astride the motorbike. Swerving it around in a tight skid, he reached out a hand and effortlessly swung her up behind him. “Hold tight!” he shouted and revving the engine again, drove towards the soldiers who leapt to safety.

Then they were away, the shouts and flames left far behind. There was just the rush of cold night air on her body and the even colder touch of Spike’s back as she pressed her face against him and tightened her arms around his waist.

……

Deep in the woods where the trees grew close together, their branches shutting out the starlight, Buffy sat, her back against the trunk of a great oak. Every muscle in her body screamed for rest, for her to let go, fade away, vanish. In the silence of the woods, she could hear an odd ticking noise as the hot metal of the bike began to cool. Tick, tick, tick, counting down the seconds until she was no more.

Spike was sprawled on the ground at her side. “Always wanted a good bike,” he said suddenly. “Reckon I can ride that one right across Europe.”

“Did you have to drive quite so fast?”

“Always with the criticism, Slayer!” He sounded irritated. Bloody hell, the woman had no gratitude. None at all. Well, that was all the thanks you got for rescuing your mortal enemy from – well – from your mortal enemies. Spike frowned. Sometimes life got very complicated and made his brain ache.

“Sorry.”

The word was hardly spoken, more of a sound than a word, but Spike sat up and Buffy could see the flash of his teeth and the gleam of his eyes. “An apology, Slayer? That’s a first.”

“Well, make the most of it. You won’t get another one. Ever!”

Silence fell again but it was friendly, warm, shared. “I wonder what caused the fire in the lorry?” Buffy asked.

There was a movement at her side and Spike’s lighter clicked on – the silver one he’d stolen and she knew so well. “Didn’t think you’d want all that scientific stuff getting back to the good old U S of A, Slayer.”

Buffy stared at the face illuminated by the flickering flame – he was smiling, eyes dancing with mischief. As she watched, he ran his tongue over his lips and she had to stop herself reaching out to pull him towards her, to let her own tongue follow that same path.

“Thank you,” she whispered because he was so pleased and there was no way she could tell him that it was all in vain, because years ahead, the Walshes’ daughter would cut open his skull and plant a metal chip inside it. And perhaps he was right to be pleased: destroying the research must surely have slowed the Initiative’s development. Perhaps it was only right that they’d only reached that stage of experimentation by the time they captured Spike. At least she knew they’d been successful with him. If they’d tried it earlier, it might have failed and he could have died.

She sighed: if only she wasn’t so tired! But she felt satisfied; her mission had been successful. She’d been sent back in time to save Spike, and that was exactly what she’d done. Quentin Travers wouldn’t find any excuse to criticise her.

Suddenly she gasped. “No!”

“What?” Spike’s hand was on her shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“No, but – I’ve lost Henry!” Spike tried not to laugh at the despair in her voice as she patted all her pockets. “He’s gone!”

“He usually turns up, like a bad penny. But if he’s – well – dead - there’s not a lot you can do about it, Slayer. There’s a war on – wars mean casualties.”

“What will Valerie say?”

“Slayer – she’s a witch. She should know.”

For a second she rested her cheek against the hand on her shoulder, then raised her own hand and twisted her fingers through his. Somehow the seconds became minutes but neither of them spoke or moved. Spike could feel the warmth of her skin against his, burning like the fire he knew would consume him if he gave in to his desire.

The swoop of an owl, hunting through the woods with a hooting cry, broke them apart. Buffy sat up and tightened her hair. The night was almost over: she could make out the sky now through the leaves. Sunrise wouldn’t be far away and Spike would have to be under cover somewhere by then. She pulled her half of the charm out of her pocket and stared at it. Spike raised an eyebrow and produced the other half. “So, it’s really goodbye time, is it?”

Buffy nodded wearily. “I think it has to be. At least yours isn’t covered in fluff!”

Spike grinned and swopped over the black and purple pieces. “OK, Slayer. Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’ll eat the fluffy bit.”

Buffy opened her mouth to tell him that Henry had probably licked it as well, then decided that she wouldn’t bother. His half of the charm looked much the nicer. “What will you do when I’ve gone?” she asked suddenly.

Spike shrugged. “Ride my new toy eastwards. Get news of my Dru. Raise hell. Have fun. Get me a drink of nice hot, fresh blood!” He tried to sound enthusiastic and failed.

“Will you miss me?”

“Oh yes! Like the pain the arse you’ve become. How can I miss a Slayer?”

Buffy picked up the charm and rolled it between her fingers. It was weird that something so small could be so powerful. “I feel I’m leaving a movie halfway through,” she complained. “I want to know what happens to Joy, Aurora, Valerie and everyone back in England.”

Spike nodded. “Well, at least you know that we meet again, Buffy Summers, although sixty odd years is a bloody long time to wait. And you still never told me who wins the war. For all I know, we could be speaking German when we next meet. Of course, everything we’ve done here, now, might change the sodding future, I suppose. Perhaps I won’t be there when you get back.”

Buffy stared at him, appalled. She’d never even thought of that possibility. A life without Spike – no! She’d rather stay here in this time – but even as she thought it, she knew she couldn’t. She was fading fast and soon there would be nothing left of her to travel forward in time.

As the sky lightened above them, Spike looked at her stricken expression and reached out to clasp her hand once more. “You’ve got to go, pet. I know that. We’ll do it together. It’s been fun, Slayer!”

Without taking her gaze from his, Buffy slipped the charm in her mouth, watching as he did the same. For a long second, it lay on her tongue, fizzing slightly.

Spike’s expression changed as he bit down on the striped sweet and felt the power begin to work inside him. His grasp tightened: “I’ll find you, Buffy! Whatever it takes, Buffy Summers, I’ll find you again.” He blinked, shuddered and slid forward to rest against – nothing!


	19. Consequences

 

 

We will remember them…  
By Lilachigh

 

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:  
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.  
At the going down of the sun and in the morning  
We will remember them.  
Laurence Binyon

 

Author’s note: Here is the final chapter. Do hope you have enjoyed the story.

 

Chapter

Consequences

 

1943 – France

John Baxter, red-headed, freckled, nineteen years old from Doncaster in England, rear-gunner of a Lancaster bomber, realised he was about to die. He reckoned it was a damn shame after he’d finally managed to grow a moustache and survived parachuting out of his crippled aircraft when the rest of his crew had perished on their return flight from Germany.

He’d been lucky enough to be picked up by the French Resistance and passed from house to house, hidden in cellars, attics, even under the floorboards of one farmhouse. But someone had betrayed the last group who’d been helping him on his way back to Blighty. A German patrol had attacked the house, shot his rescuers and now he was being man-handled out of the farm, towards a plain black van.

When the monsters came, John was too bewildered to understand what was going on. Figures leaping out of the dark, people with odd, contorted faces, terrors from his comic books, demons from Saturday morning flicks, their eyes gleaming yellow in the moonlight. The screams as the Germans died chilled his blood to ice and he waited, without hope, for them to kill him, too. He reckoned he was going mad; watched bloody fangs being bared in his direction and hoped he would be too far gone to understand when it happened to him.

“Get behind me and stay behind me!” The words were snapped out in English but no Englishman ever looked like that. John stood watching in disbelief as the monster dispatched another two German soldiers, then rose, wiping blood from his mouth, his face shimmering back to what seemed like a normal face.

“Don’t worry, chum. You’ll be on your way home soon.” It clicked a lighter on a cigarette, the flame illuminating brown curls, a scarred eyebrow.

“Who – what – are you?”

“Me?” The monster laughed. “Hate to use the word, but I’m your sodding guardian angel.”

It gave a couple of orders to the monsters that now looked just like people and John was hustled away, head whirling, his feet hardly touching the ground. He remembered very little of the rest of his journey back to England and when he was debriefed on his return, he reckoned he’d sound daft telling the officers what had happened, so he kept silent. But until he died, many years later, John Baxter had nightmares about the monster whose blue eyes turned yellow…

* * * * * *

1943 – Dorset, England

Valerie Figgs, Witch in Residence to the Watchers’ Council, looked up from her calculations, smiled in delight and picking up the phone, asked the operator to be connected to the Watchers’ Rochester office. Minutes later she was speaking to her old friend, a weary sounding Colonel Monroe.

“I say, Monroe, it’s Figgs here! How are you? How’s the war going in Rochester?... Oh, right… yes, same here… Listen, Monroe, thought you’d like to know, the charm’s been used…. yes, the one we gave Buffy Summers and the vampire. All the signs tell me it’s been taken – so she’s gone back or forward, rather!…. What… oh, yes, no sign of her in our time at all. ….Well…neither of them should remember anything at all, but…. Oh no, they won’t have any definite memories, I’m sure of that… but… I’ve discovered the charm is based on magnetism – pulling people from one time to the other…. yes, I know opposite ends of magnets attract, that’s what I’m concerned about…. the link might still be there, pulling them together through time… no, no, I’m not really worried, old bean… I mean, we know a vampire’s life is short. At the best William the Bloody will only be with us a few months, then…. oh yes, I’m certain…. we’ve nothing to worry about at all…. What good did she do coming back?”

Valerie stared round her dark, pungent smelling office. It seemed empty without Henry. She missed her toad, but he’d been determined to go with the Slayer to France.

“I have absolutely no idea what the purpose of her coming back could have been… as you said in the beginning, she had to come back in time in order to save the world. I had rather thought she might stop the War in some way…but …well, obviously not! I suppose we’ll never know…”

A few days later, Valerie was translating a very old document - which contained fascinating but probably completely fanciful details about the power of certain monks to alter memories - when footsteps sounded on the stairs and her door was flung open.

Sir Philip Travers stood there, a man in civies and a stern-faced young woman at his side. “And this is the temporary office of our Witch in Residence – Miss Figgs. Valerie – this is Doctor Walsh and his wife, Dr Walsh! Important guests of the Council. I’m showing them around our home from home. Of course, our headquarters in London are very fine, but we’ve had to rough it here in the country to avoid the bombing. The Walshes have just arrived from – well, from abroad and are on their way to America, when we can find a suitable vessel or plane.”

“How do you do?” Valerie said, holding out her hand, then wiping it swiftly on the bottom of her khaki trousers because it seemed to be covered in some bright orange sticky substance.

The two doctors ignored her gesture: they looked tired, pale and drawn. The woman was clutching a large leather bag to her chest, as if it contained all the secrets of the universe.

Sir Philip pursed his lips. Really, Figgs was a nightmare; a relic from the past. She reminded him of his old Nanny, full of energy and an iron determination to make him drink his ghastly evening tonic. He wished he could get rid of the ridiculous position of Witch in Residence. This was 1943: the time for witchcraft in the Council was long gone.

“Sadly, Professor Walsh, the doctor’s father, died on his way here,” Sir Philip said smoothly. “A vampire attack, I believe.”

Dr Walsh nodded. “It was horrible. So fast; we were lucky to escape with our lives.”

“But one day we will defeat them,” his wife said, her voice sounding remarkable Germanic to Valerie, although, of course, there was no way she could be. “I have the remains of the Professor’s research here with me. We will go to America and start again.”

“Jolly good show,” Valerie said enthusiastically, not understanding a word of what was going on.

“Look! You can see from these charts drawn by my father-in-law – we will build an establishment to rid the world of vampires and demons once and for all!” The girl pulled a folder out of her bag and her husband and Sir Philip bent over it eagerly.

Valerie, wondering wistfully when she could return to her manuscript, was the only one who saw a large, irritated toad hop out of the bottom of the leather bag. She bit back her delighted exclamation as Henry burrowed his way under the papers on her desk, looking for a piece of cheese he’d left there weeks earlier. He’d had a long, boring journey home after his flying leap from the Slayer’s pocket into the safety of the deep leather bag during the final fight in France. But he wanted to be out of sight before the owner of the bag realised several important papers had been eaten.

Henry belched quietly. Well, there was a War on.

* * * * * *

1997 - Prague

Dru opened her eyes – one second asleep, the next wide awake. The room was dark but at the square of the window the curtains had been pulled back, showing a sky turning from orange to deepest red as the sun sank. And the pale shape of the man standing with his back to her, gazing out at the coming of night, was the shape of the man who should have been lying next to her.

She reached out a hand and pulled Miss Matilda from under her pillow. She pressed her lips against the blood stained hair – Miss Matilda had got too close to the supper table last night and now needed a wash: Miss Matilda was in disgrace.

“Spike?”

“Go back to sleep, lover. It’ll be evening soon.”

“Will we have a picnic tonight? A picnic with people running and screaming with jam. And cake.”

Spike sighed. “We need to keep a low profile tonight, Princess. We’ve killed and fed well this week.” He loved his Dark Princess with every nerve in his body, but sometimes her desire for death made him feel – not so much uncomfortable, as unworthy. She was like Liam and Darla – they slaughtered for the fun of it. Well, so did he, of course! Big Bad, here, killing wasn’t a spectator sport. But once you’d eaten – the constant torture could become a bit – monotonous – and he hated being bored.

He lit a cigarette, clicking his lighter on and off, watching the little flame quiver in a draught. The silver metal case fit so neatly into his palm; he frowned, it was odd, but he couldn’t quite remember where he’d got it from. He thought it was during the time he’d been leading his vampire band in France during the War, but he reckoned he must have been knocked on the head at some time because his memories of that time were vague and muddled. But he knew it had been fun: he’d lost count of the number of Germans they’d killed before the advancing British and Yank armies had put an end to their little games.

Spike gazed out of the window to where the sun had finally vanished. Every evening here in Prague he found himself waiting until he could open the curtains and stare out across the Hansel and Gretel rooftops to where the sun was setting in the West.

He didn’t understand why he felt this overpowering need to travel in that direction again. He’d been to America years ago – enjoyed himself, dyed his hair – the compulsion to become blond had been oddly overwhelming - purloined his leather duster and killed a Slayer in the process! Good times!

And that had been weird; all the while they were fighting on the Subway, even as he broke her neck, he’d had the oddest feeling that she was the wrong Slayer. She’d fought a good fight, but somehow he’d expected – much more. As if he’d been looking for gold and had found brass.

Life here in Prague was getting difficult. Dru was – well, not out of control, but taking risks that were going to land them in big trouble soon. America would be fun – full of life and colour, great cars and great music. But not New York, not this time. He wanted to travel across country to California – there was a Hellmouth underneath some poxy little town, so he’d heard. That could only be a good thing.

He turned to Dru, but she was asleep again. Tenderly he tucked Miss Matilda back under the pillow and flung himself down onto the bed. He felt happier now he had a plan – he was good at plans. Dru wouldn’t like it; she hated Amcrica, but for some reason he knew he had to get there - soon.

* * * * * *

1945 - England  
The ceremony was carried out with all solemnity. Even though peace had just been declared, the Watchers’ Council were far from their grand London headquarters; they were still scattered throughout the country, the chief officials living in the old manor house in Dorset.

Sir Philip Travers sat at the top of a long oak table and waited until everyone was seated. He stood up, raised a hand for silence, then opened the vast leather-bound ledger in which were written the names of every Slayer for as long as records had been kept.

He solemnly inked a neat line through the name Joy Gastonet, wrote the date of her death in the margin and then on the next line entered the new Slayer. “Ladies and Gentlemen – Fellow Watchers – I am both saddened and proud to announce that we have a new Slayer. Called yesterday. Her name is Francesca Lucco.”

“Italian?” someone asked.

Sir Philip had the overwhelming desire to say, ‘no, Egyptian’, but refrained. Sometimes the stupidity of the people he worked with was overwhelming. “So it seems. Called in Rimini. Our Italian Watcher is on his way there now.”

“Do we know what happened to Joy?”

Sir Philip shrugged. A dead Slayer meant nothing to him, except a great deal of paperwork. “No – but as Francesca Lucco has been called, obviously Joy Gastonet is dead. There is some evidence that she was held in one of those camps we are just learning about.”

A servant padded silently around the table, handing out drinks and the Watchers stood to toast the arrival of their new Slayer. Sir Philip glanced surreptitiously at his watch and hoped they could cut short these tedious celebrations: his son, Quentin, was coming down from Eton for lunch.

As the group dispersed, one of his assistants hesitated in front of Sir Philip. “What about her child, Sir?”

“Child? Oh the wretched Gastonet’s child, the infant that odd American who said she was a Slayer brought across from France – I’d forgotten about it. A girl, wasn’t it? Some weird Frenchiefied name – Aurora – that was it!”

“We’re paying to keep her in a foster home. Do we continue with that expense now her mother can no longer arrive in England to claim her?”

Sir Philip shook his head decisively. “Certainly not! We’re not a charitable institution. Just – well – show some initiative and tidy up all the loose ends, there’s a good chap. Pack her off to an orphanage abroad somewhere; Australia, New Zealand, one of the colonies. It’ll be a new life for her.”

* * * * * *

 

2001 – London, England

Rupert Giles ran lightly down the long spiral flight of steps into the depths of the basement under the London headquarters of the Watchers’ Council. He felt years younger – the news he’d just received had taken a vast weight off his shoulders. She was back and Buffy would never remember that he had sent her into the future without any way of getting back. She would trust him as much as ever: he didn’t want the smallest crack to grow in their relationship.

“Dorcas?”

“Rupert – I thought you would be flying over the Atlantic by now on your way back to Sunnydale.”

“Delayed a few days. Buffy’s home! I got a phone call minutes ago from Willow. I’ll let her settle into her normal routine before I visit.”

Dorcas smiled and reached out a finger to stroke Flanagan’s scaley head. “Yes, the signs told me, too. Good news. Mind you, I always thought the charm would work – although – ”

“I can’t tell you what a relief it is,” Giles said, interrupting her and so never knowing that Dorcas had been about to tell him that, according to the indications, the charm had somehow been diluted and she was no longer completely sure that all attachments to the past would be eradicated.

“The thought of explaining to Dawn – what are you doing?” He gazed round the pungent smelling office. There were packing cases everywhere and the usual untidy chaos seemed to have doubled.

“Didn’t you hear the news?” Dorcas said sadly. “I’ve been made redundant! Travers has decided the Council no longer need a Witch in Residence.”

“What?”

“He thinks it’s an out-dated position, so Flanagan and I are packing up and moving out.”

“That’s arrant nonsense! Let me speak to him. Where are you going?”

Dorcas smiled and shook her head. “No, please don’t stress yourself, Rupert. I’m quite happy to go. Things aren’t the same here as they used to be. We’re off to Devon – to a coven there. Flanagan is delighted. He loves the countryside.”

Flanagan stared at his mistress with unblinking, emerald eyes, wondering how such a clever woman could be so stupid. He hated the countryside! He’d never got over the time, when his name had been Henry, spent hopping through a French wood, hiding from foxes and badgers, looking for the Slayer so he could get home to England. But – he blinked twice – they needed to be out of this basement – he could see a vast explosion, death, destruction, this room buried under hundreds of tons of rubble. Yes, Devon, for all its mud and fresh air, would be the better choice!

 

2001 – Sunnydale

The charm was smooth in her mouth, Buffy could hear Spike’s voice saying he would find her…..and - the hard earth of the French woods vanished and there was just the softness of the familiar sofa in her family room. She was home! What did that mean? Her crossbow was lying next to her on the sofa. It was early evening; she could hear footsteps upstairs, the sound of the shower running, Dawn singing some hideous pop song.

OK, she was home. So, that meant she’d been away. Geez, good thinking, Buffy! Yes! Quentin Travers had been here, had asked her to save a Slayer – in…in… 1943! She remembered the date. But where had she gone, what had happened? Had she succeeded?

Wisps of memory floated through her head and she tried desperately to grasp at them as they dissolved. A plane – a dark-haired baby – fighting – men in uniform – Spike’s mouth on hers – well of course she would remember Spike! She spent most of her time these days trying to put him out of her mind. But he would have played no part in what she’d been doing in 1943. No, she had to concentrate on these other memories – but even as she tried, she knew that, like dreams, they were fading away and all she could see clearly in her mind was the ridiculous picture of a large green toad!

“Buffy! You’re back!” A flurry of very wet hair, long legs and arms and Dawn was hugging her fiercely. “How was L.A.? You might have told me you were going? You look tired? Lots of Slaying? You’re not injured, are you? You look OK. Oh, by the way, I’m going to a party with Janice. Willow said it would be OK. Oh and Spike’s looking for you and I want to wear the locket.”

“Hi, I’m fine, sorry, I didn’t know I was going away and there wasn’t time to tell you - what sort of party? – and no, I – lost the locket,” she said without thinking, then as her hand went to her throat to fiddle with the catch on the side of the gold heart that would never open, Dawn pulled away, pouting.

“You so did not, Buffy Summers. You’re wearing it! You promised you wouldn’t when you were going Slaying. You know Mom and Dad said we should share it. How come you get to have it all the time?”

Buffy felt confused; why was she quite certain that she’d lost the locket? She undid it and Dawn spun away with it in her hand, smiling now.

There were a hundred things Buffy needed to do but – only one person she wanted to see….when she got there, the crypt door opened under her touch: the top chamber was empty but Buffy could hear movement in the lower room.

“Lock the door if you’re coming down here, Slayer. Obviously anyone can walk in – you all seem to think this is open house.”

Buffy climbed down the ladder – Spike was sprawled in a chair, drinking what she hoped was red wine from a glass she was certain had once belonged to Giles. “Hi!”

“Slayer – back so soon? What was the problem – Liam too busy to scratch all your itches – oh, no I forgot – poor boy can’t do that, can he, otherwise you’d be dealing with dear Angelus!”

“I haven’t seen Angel,” Buffy said - even if her memory was faulty, that was one thing she was certain about. “And anyway, it’s none of your business who I see!”

“Or shag,” Spike drawled, gulping down another mouthful of wine. “Quite agree, Slayer, but we had a date – well, not a date because that means going out where people can see us – but you were coming round here and you couldn’t even do me the courtesy of letting me know you were going away.”

Buffy felt her cheeks redden. “I’m sorry – it was all a rush – I had to go – ”

“Yes?”

“Away – for the Council,” she added.

For the first time, a gleam of interest showed on Spike’s face. “Those poxy bastards? I thought you’d finished with Travers and co.”

“I have – I did – it was – ” she paused: it was all too complicated to explain that she couldn’t remember. “Geez, can’t you just trust me?” she snapped. “I don’t want a row - I’ve had a long journey and I wanted to – ”

“Check up on what’s been happening? Well, you can relax, pet. I’ve kept an eye on Dawn, patrolled every night, got rid of a nest of Embrefiz demons and avoided your Scoobie friends like the plague. So, that’s my news. Satisfied?”

Buffy glared at him and turned to go. She just couldn’t deal with Spike in this snappy mood. Anyone would think they were married, the way he acted. Suddenly an odd thought crossed her mind and she found herself turning from the ladder, asking, “Spike – what did you do during the War?”

“Which one?”

“The Second World War.”

Spike frowned and gulped down the remainder of his wine. “Spent most of it touring round Europe with Dru – fun times. I remember once in Berlin – ”

“So even though you’re a Brit, you didn’t fight the Germans?”

Spike hesitated – so many deaths, so much blood and carnage and a lot of it caused by him. He recalled his vampire army quite clearly – couldn’t remember just how it had come about, but knew they had caused havoc behind the enemy lines. Not that he was going to admit that to the Slayer – he still had the remnants of his reputation as the Big Bad to guard.

“We fought whoever would provide us with a decent meal, pet.”  
Suddenly something in her expression cut through his jealousy and he leapt out of the chair and was at her side, wrapping his arms round her, letting her weight fall against him as it always did when she was very, very tired.

“I’m sorry, Slayer,” he muttered. “Whatever you’ve been doing for the past few days, I’m sure it needed doing, but Niblet told me you’d gone to L.A. and I imagined – ” His arms tightened,

Buffy felt her treacherous body relax into the angles and curves of his, as if it belonged there. That was what terrified her when she lay alone in the dark, night after night. Why should she only feel this sensation of being complete when she was with Spike? It was unnatural, wrong, the same sort of wrongness that had stopped her killing him when they first met in the alley behind the Bronze all those years ago, why she had fought in the school without weapons – as if she already knew his strengths and weaknesses and had no desire to stake him.

Reaching up, she twisted his hair round her fingers and shuddered as he began to kiss her, hungrily, desperately, as if they had been apart for decades, instead of a few days. They slid down onto the floor together, hands feverishly tugging clothes away: skin on skin was the only thing that mattered.

“How long have we got – Dawn? – ” the words broke from his mouth in a groan.

“Hours – Dawn partying – she’s wearing Dad’s locket – she’d better take care of it. Ohhh!!!” She arched her head back, baring her neck as his hands got to work on her body. The last words they spoke for a long time were, “I thought you’d lost it?” and “So did I!” and neither of them stopped to wonder about what they were saying.

 

2001 – London

Quentin Travers shut the grubby little notebook with an angry snap. Such a waste of time and money: the Slayer was back in Sunnydale, nothing had changed. She hadn’t been killed or saved the world or changed anything so far as he could see. He frowned: he’d been so sure that Colonel Monroe’s scattered notes about a Slayer returning to 1943 to save a Slayer and the world were true.

Opening his wall-safe, he threw the notebook inside, slammed the door shut and spun the dial to lock it. The man had probably been off his head when he wrote the notes; suffering from some damn silly stress caused by the bombing, no doubt.

He poured himself a large brandy and thought, for the hundredth time that if it wasn’t for Slayers, being Head of the Watchers’ Council would be a damn fine job!

 

1959 – New York

Holding hands, the couple walked nervously into the private clinic. The doctor looked up from behind his desk and smiled. “Good afternoon. Did you have a good journey?”

The man nodded. “It was OK. We’re heading back to California tomorrow on the train. Can we – can we take him with us?”

The doctor smiled again, walked out of the room and came back carrying a baby wrapped in a thick white shawl. He placed it in the woman’s arms, pleased to see the wonder in her face. “He’s a fine boy. It was a difficult birth but he’s come through it well.”

The man touched the child’s cheek with his finger. A son, after all this time. “And his mother – she won’t – there won’t be any trouble from her?”

The doctor shook his head. “She’s hardly more than a child herself. She knows there is no way she can look after a baby. She just wants him to have a good home: she’s been very brave.”

“What’s that in his hand?” the woman asked.

“All his mother had to give him. A gold locket she thinks her own mom must have given her before she was sent to America from England. She’s had it all her life, anyway.”

“We’ll keep it safe for him to give his children,” the woman said softly, wiping away the tears of joy that were running down her face.

The doctor watched them go. He felt satisfied with this adoption. The Summers were a good, kind couple. Not the sort to go out and save the world, but he was sure their boy would grow up to father children of his own and, the doctor chuckled to himself, stranger things had happened, perhaps one of those would one day save the world!

 

The End


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